


no wind in the sails until my only recovery

by acid_glue234



Series: you're just another song and dance [9]
Category: Glee
Genre: Birthday, Drama, F/F, Friendship, New York City, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-31
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-11 06:02:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 23,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2056578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acid_glue234/pseuds/acid_glue234
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rachel looks at herself in the mirror and sighs. She knows she’s pretty. She knows she has a nice ass, hot legs, and a glisteningly white smile, but what is that compared to all of the other beautiful women in this world? Nothing, if she can’t have Santana. (Part IX of the "you're just another song and dance" series, Rachel's POV)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. tempted just to make an ugly scene

She gives the cold shoulder because, really, she has no other way of coping with what she knows. She wants to talk about it, with _somebody_ , at least, because keeping everything she’s feeling bottled up cannot be good for her stress levels.

If she was still in high school and going to a therapist weekly, all of this anxiety would have already been off her chest, but she’s not in high school anymore.

Rachel’s a big girl. She’s in New York now, and she knows how to handle her emotions without hiding away and crying in her room about it, but sometimes, she does that anyway, because the methods she once learned in therapy were more directed towards tall, awkward boys with clumsy hands and stuttered words rather than cunningly sleek and sexy women with cleverly wicked tongues.

This shouldn’t mean so much to her. Rachel’s fixation should be on her never-ending drive to get on Broadway, but obsessions have an annoying way of focusing on the kinkiest subjects. She finds herself staring at smooth legs, and silky hair, and a plump chest way more than she should.

She’d be ashamed of her wandering eyes if she didn’t already know Santana’s eyes tend to wander on their own accord every now and then, too, but more out of appreciation than arousal, much to Rachel’s disappointment. Santana is gay, sure, but she’s always been exceptional at controlling her urges.

Rachel never asks Santana about what happened between her and Quinn, but it becomes quite obvious when Santana starts to spend all of her time emailing Quinn, texting Quinn with this gut-wrenchingly sexy smirk, and even Skype-ing Quinn about college, fully knowing Rachel could help just as well, or possibly even more.

She feels like an outsider looking in sometimes, and it’s almost like high school all over again, where the two popular girls purposely fail to include the lonely dweeb. Except now, the lonely dweeb is living with one of the popular girls and could possibly be in love with her, while the two popular girls have no idea and are more interested in each other.

Sometimes it’s just better not to know. That’s what Rachel tries to tell herself, at least. She could think about it and speculate all she wants, but that’ll never get her a true response unless she asks Santana herself, and that’s only if Santana decides to tell her the truth.

There are so many secrets surrounding them, but Rachel’s accepted that whatever happened between Santana and Quinn is none of her business. Rachel has her own secrets to worry about. She lied to Santana about Daniel asking her out again in order to get a rise out of her, and she still feels bad about that. It worked, in some regard, but Santana was more upset that Daniel wouldn’t leave her alone rather than being jealous over him.

The biggest secret she’s keeping at the moment is one of her own. Only Angela, Daniel, and Gwen know about it, and no matter how much Angela loves drama, how much Daniel likes Rachel, and how much Gwen wants to catch Daniel’s attention, she knows she can trust them to keep this piece of her life to themselves.

If Santana knows that Rachel knows, her roommate doesn’t let on. She’s annoying to the point of endearing, especially when it comes to getting Rachel’s attention. Before Rachel even knows what’s happened, she and Santana are hugging it out in the kitchen, and she’s forgiven the girl once again without even realizing it.

It’s those big brown eyes, she swears. And that crooked smirk. The soft crinkle in her nose. The pout in her lip as it trembles just enough to be so damn adorable, and Rachel cracks under the pressure of it all, and then Santana’s once again in her good graces, without even really trying.

Santana probably doesn’t even know—never mind care—what she did wrong this time, and Rachel so wanted to make it known, but there was really no way of doing that without making it clear how she feels. All Rachel knows, from that night Santana texted her when they were in Lima, is that Santana needed her.

Of all her classes in high school, Rachel’s poorest subject was math, though she can still put two and two together. She knows what happened between Quinn and Santana, which kind of breaks her heart into a million pieces.

It’s nauseating to think about. Not only because it’s Santana and Quinn, but because it’s not _her_ ; because Santana would rather give a very intimate piece of herself to a friend she’s barely even spoken to since graduation than her best friend at the moment.

Forget nauseating. She is damn insulted.

Rachel looks at herself in the mirror and sighs. She knows she’s pretty. She knows she has a nice ass, hot legs, and a glisteningly white smile, but what is that compared to all of the other beautiful women in this world? Nothing, if she can’t have Santana.

She doesn’t measure up. She doesn’t have what Santana obviously wants, but she’s not going to change. Rachel told herself years ago that she would never again change for another person, so there’s really nothing she can do to get Santana’s attention without revealing _everything_.

Santana’s always wanted what she can’t have, so Rachel decides not to push it. If it’s meant to be, it’ll happen. If it’s not…well, Rachel will be heartbroken, but she’ll learn to deal with it.

—

She hears Santana slip through her curtain in the middle of the night, the first time since they’ve been back from Lima, and Rachel really wants to kick her out. She wants to tell Santana that they should stop this—even though it’s not really anything at all—because their dependency on each other is getting a little out of control.

It’s clear Santana’s going through a lot at the moment—though she tries to hide it as much as possible—with her breakup with Brittany, and witnessing her ex move on with a mutual friend, and then all of the expectations her parents have for her, wanting Santana to become a doctor, or a lawyer, or a business mogul.

Rachel’s always known what she wanted and who she’s wanted to be, but Santana’s just now starting to figure things out, and it can’t be easy doing it all on her own. She’s obviously struggling with what she wants right now, none of them having anything to do with Rachel, and it’s hard to watch at times, so she lets Santana sleep next to her and even cuddle up with her when it gets cold.

“Hey, Rach,” Santana whispers.

“Hmm.”

“You awake?”

Rachel thinks about it for a moment. “No.”

Santana nudges the back of Rachel’s thigh with her knee, and Rachel groans in annoyance before turning around and swatting Santana on the arm.

“Fucking liar,” Santana chuckles, rubbing at her shoulder.

“What do you want?” Rachel mutters, rolling back over. “I have class in the morning.”

Santana’s silent for a moment, and Rachel can tell she’s wondering about something scary by the unsteadiness of her breathing. “I was thinking about my story, and what you told me about drawing from experience,” she says, and then the covers shift, and Rachel smiles a little to herself when the blankets are placed higher on her shoulders.

“Mhmm,” Rachel hums, snuggling deeper into her pillow.

“And I’ve been trying to come up with something new and original, and dig deep into what I know,” Santana shifts again, and then breathes out a long sigh, “because that’s the shit we should write, you know.” She pauses and then shoves at Rachel’s shoulder with an annoyed grumble. “Yo, Rach, are you even listening?”

Rachel’s eyes slip open for a moment as she rolls over. “Yeah, what we know. Mhmm.”

Santana props herself up on her elbow and then runs a hand through Rachel’s hair. Rachel tries her best not to shiver, but she loves it when Santana is vulnerable and lets herself feel, lets herself touch and connect with the people surrounding her.

Santana laughs softly, and then whispers, “Go back to sleep, Rachel. You’re ineffective when you’re tired.”

“Okay,” Rachel mumbles, nodding slowly, though she’s not entirely sure why. “Goodnight, Santana.”

There’s a soft kiss pressed to her forehead, and then she hears, “Goodnight, babe.”

—

Stop. Breathe. Wait. Repeat.

It's become a mantra now. She does it every time she sees Santana.

Their eyes lock. Stop. Santana smiles at her. Breathe. There's an innocent touch. Wait. Santana leaves her be. Repeat.

Bold stare. Stop. Santana smirks like the devil possessed by an angel. Breathe. Warm hand palming her leg. Wait. Space is established. Repeat.  

Lingering eye contact. Stop. A flashy grin. Breathe. Scolding embrace. Wait. Two minutes alone. Repeat.

It's simple, really. _Stop_ goes the world. _Breathe_ in the anxiety. _Wait_ out the blissful pain. _Repeat_ the lovesick mantra. _Stop_ goes her heart. _Breathe_ out the erupting butterflies. _Wait_ 'til the curse has run its course. _Repeat_ this unrequited technique.

Whichever way you spin it, it'll always be the same dance; the same tango. You can twirl it, dip it, slide, turn, drop, and fall, but it will always be the same steps, moves, and choreography.

The technique remains the same; the dance remains the same. From day to day, nothing changes. Santana's still a force to be reckoned with. She doesn't mess around. She knows what she wants, and the hardest thing for Rachel to come to terms with is that Santana's wants and needs will never line up with hers.

They are on two different paths that will never meet up. All Rachel wants is for them to be on the same page, but they're not even in the same damn book. She thinks it's about time she does something different. But what? What can she do? Where can she go? Who could she think about that's not Santana?

She needs to reprogram her mind. But how to do that? Where to start? Perhaps the place she wants to end; right in Santana's heart. The girl has weird trust issues, but she loves with her _whole_ heart.

She's wary about letting people too close, but once you're in, you're in for life. It's a privilege, not a right. Rachel's not going to ruin this. Santana trusts her, and that's where Rachel's going to start in finding her peace in all of this.

First thing's first. She can't get hurt by the small things. Santana is allowed to smile at other women. She should be able to without Rachel feeling hurt. Rachel tells herself that and then convinces herself of the truth in that statement. Santana can sleep with whomever she cares to, and that in no way shall affect what Rachel does or how Rachel feels.

But she is not becoming careless. No. Not at all. She is merely building a defense mechanism. This is how she will not only deal but manage the pain and hurt coursing through her at the thought of Santana's probable rejection. It's no biggie. Not a big deal in the slightest.

This is just the psychology behind protecting herself from more emotional harm.

—

Okay, so there’s a lot of things about Santana that Rachel’s has had to put up with over the last five months, some tolerable, some absolutely inexcusable, like how she leaves wet towels on the bathroom floor for Rachel to trip over in the morning, or how she steals Rachel’s clothes even though they barely fit her, or how she sometimes walks around the loft in only a towel, dripping water _everywhere_.

But the most infuriating of her bad habits is when she blow-dries her hair in the middle of the night, because _really_ , who does that? But then there are other parts of Santana—parts that are so great that it easily overshadows all of the nuisances about her.

If Santana really wanted to, she could probably become a comedian. Rachel never noticed how funny she is, but it is so damn attractive. She has no idea why but then decides it doesn’t really matter anyway. It just _is_.

Another surprise is that Santana’s terrified of vulnerability, but somehow it’s the most endearing thing about her, because she’s always so strong in all other ways.

Santana is the messiest person Rachel’s ever met; her clothes strewn all over the place, her bed never made up. She forgets to put things back where she found them, and Rachel’s not Santana’s mother, so she refuses to pick up after the girl, but when Santana actually makes an effort to clean up after herself and pick up her garbage, it is the most adorable thing.

Santana has this way of telling stories, with wildly animated gestures and illustrious facial expressions, and it’s always entertaining to watch.

She is smitten almost every time Santana opens her mouth, and the crazy thing is, Rachel didn't even fall in love; she kind of stumbled into it, the same way Santana stumbles around their apartment at three in the morning on a weeknight after spending the whole entire afternoon at Cole's place.

Santana doesn't make a habit out of getting stoned, but when she goes for it, she _really_ goes for it. But an intoxicated Santana isn't as destructive as one might presume. She's more disgraceful than anything.

Rachel wakes up to the sound of someone banging and stumbling around in the living area, so she gets up to take Santana to bed—yes, this has happened a few times before—and Santana ends up hanging off of her and laughing as she tries to put on some music and make Rachel dance with her.

But it's a weeknight, and Rachel has dance class with the second worst person in the world—right behind the devil—at eight in the morning tomorrow, so she shushes Santana and tells her to shut up when the girl starts rambling on about her crazy night and all of the digits she got.

There's a pressure against Rachel's side, and she turns to find Santana tucked into her, arms squeezed around her torso as she shuffles her feet drunkenly and then brings them both crashing to the floor.

Rachel squeals on her way down, and Santana snorts hysterically when Rachel lands heavily on top of her. Unfortunately, Rachel can't find it within herself to laugh; the force behind their impact succeeded in knocking all the wind out of her. She wouldn't be able to laugh even if she tried.

Santana laughs for the both of them, craning her neck back and cackling so loudly she wakes up Kurt. From behind his curtain, he yells at them to go to bed, but Santana ignores him, continuing to giggle silently into Rachel's neck as Rachel tries to roll off of her roommate. Santana only follows her, mimicking Rachel's motions and rolling back over so that she's on top of Rachel now.

"Pinned ya," she whispers teasingly, and then laughs again.

A stoned Santana is adorable, but she's also insufferable. "Santana, get off of me. You're not as light as you look."

"Did you just call me fat?" she grumbles.

"Yes, you're humongous and you're doing a great job of crushing my windpipe."

"Oops, sorry," Santana giggles, shifting slightly so that's she's not entirely on top of Rachel anymore, but still on top of her. "You're pretty from this view."

Butterflies erupt in her stomach. "Only this view?"

"All types of views," Santana says, smirking as she picks at Rachel's hair and then twirls a brown strand around her finger. "Especially from behind. Your ass is all kinds of amazing."

Rachel flushes and then brushes off the compliment with a roll of her eyes. She doesn't know how to respond to that, so she keeps quiet and allows her eyes to wander over Santana's face; the dip in her dimples, her smooth eyebrows, the daze in her foggy expression. Meanwhile, Santana's still smiling down at her, dark eyes tracing Rachel's every contour.

Grinning wryly, she ducks her head down to rest on Rachel's shoulder and then tucks her face into the space between Rachel's neck. "You're my favorite person. You know that, Rach?"

"Yeah,” Rachel sighs. “I know."

Santana is Rachel's favorite person too, but Santana already knows that, so she doesn't say it out loud. They know each other. They can practically read each other's thoughts at this point.

"Your breath smells good."

Rachel smiles, stroking a hand down Santana's back. "It's probably the new mouthwash I bought. Got it on sale at—"

"That dingy marketplace on the corner?” Santana asks, and then waits for Rachel to nod before adding, "Love that place."

"They always have the best—"

“Red potatoes," Santana mutters, probably rolling her eyes. "Yeah, I guess, but sometimes they taste like—"

"They do _not_ taste like dirt, Santana. They're organic and—"

"—good for your health and digestive tract and blah yadda blah blah."

See, mind-reading at its finest. Rachel tickles Santana’s sides and then smiles when her roommate laughs into her neck.

They lie like that for a while, Rachel staring up at the ceiling until her eyes get too tired to stay open, Santana curling up more into Rachel's side to find warmth as the heat shuts off after its repeated cycle.

The soft pitter patter of Santana's heart against Rachel's chest starts to slow down, alerting Rachel to the fact that her roommate is falling asleep. Looks like they'll be camping out here tonight.

Again.

Rachel needs to remind herself to start setting out pillows and blankets on the floor before she goes to bed whenever Santana's out late. This is around the seventh time this has happened, and Rachel's back surely isn't appreciating her lack of memory.

A puff of warm air hits the base of Rachel's chin as Santana breathes out tiredly, her heavy eyes opening and closing in a futile battle to stay awake.

"Rach?" she murmurs.

"Mmhm.”

"I have to tell you something."

"Okay."

"But it's a secret,” she whispers, turning her head, and Rachel shivers when Santana’s chin brushes against her boob. “So you have to promise not to tell anyone."

Rachel peeks an eye open and glances down at the bushel of hair resting on her chest. She raises a brow. "Who would I tell?"

"Just promise," Santana whines, finding Rachel's hand and raveling their fingers together.

"Fine.” She squeezes Santana’s hand in hers. “I promise."

For a long time, she just looks at Rachel steadily, as if she’s trying to make sure Rachel’s telling the truth. Eventually, Santana must see _something_ , because she then leans down to hotly whisper, “I miss Brittany,” right into Rachel’s ear.

—

At the beginning of class on Tuesday, Miss July tells Rachel to stay after so that they can have a little talk.

When the rest of the students get word of this, their eyes go wide and they all avoid her for the next two hours, including Angela and Gwen—Daniel’s been avoiding her for weeks now anyway—so she has no one to help her with the steps today.

Her footwork is off because she’s so distracted, which’ll definitely make her talk with Miss July later even worse. The woman hates it when students screw up her choreography.

The end of class comes, way too soon in Rachel’s opinion, and she watches mournfully as the rest of the dancers towel off and slink out of the studio with smiles on their faces. Rachel doesn’t know what she even did wrong this time. She almost thought Miss July forgot she existed, because the instructor literally hasn’t even looked her way since the beginning of the new semester. 

“Schwimmer,” she hears from behind her, and Rachel winces before turning around with a forced smile. Miss July saunters over, toned arms up as she ties her silky blonde hair into a tight bun. “So, you’re probably wondering why I’ve asked you to stay after today.”

Obviously.

“Yes,” she says instead. “I hope this doesn’t have anything to do with my dedication to memorize choreography, because I really thought I had been improving, which is the reason you’ve allowed me some space to—"

“ _Please_. Stop talking,” Miss July instructs, rolling her eyes up to the ceiling, “before you say something you’ll regret. You’re not in trouble, okay? You’ve actually been doing pretty okay in this class recently.”

It’s not what Rachel’s expecting to hear at all, and she almost pinches herself to make sure she’s not dreaming. “Oh, well…” There’s a million things Rachel could say in response to that, but she’s always had a tendency of running her mouth and saying something vacuous without even realizing it.

She’s going to take what she’s got for now—because this is already more than she ever expected to hear from Cassandra July—and only say, “Why, thank you.”

“Oh, don’t thank me yet.” Miss July turns and walks over to the barre, waving a hand for Rachel to follow. She immediately obeys, her small smile quickly morphing into a frown when Cassandra looks at her through the mirror with a pained expression. “That girl who's always coming in to pick you up,” she says, lifting her leg to stretch it out on the barre. “She’s gay, right?”

Rachel arches an eyebrow, unsure of where this is going. “How did you..."

"Oh, please, there are mirrors on every wall. I have _eyes_ ,” Cassandra laughs, and it’s honestly the first time Rachel’s ever seen the woman smile. She has really pretty teeth, but then the grin is gone, replaced with a thoughtful grimace. “Just keep a leash on her, yeah?"

“I’m sorry,” Rachel drawls, eyebrows knit in confusion. “I’m afraid I don’t know where you’re going with this.”

Cassandra breathes out a weary sigh as she drops her leg from off the barre and then leans on it with her forearm. “I’m trying to warn you,” she explains, blue eyes pinned to brown with a _duh_ expression. “Your girlfriend has wandering eyes, and I don't know—I guess I'd hate to see you get hurt, okay?"

A fiery blush makes its way up Rachel’s neck at the implication. This is like, the fifth person who’s thought she and Santana were dating, and Rachel has the same embarrassing reaction every time.

To be fair, it’s really not too far out of left field to think that, because they _do_ act like a couple. Rachel was never as handsy and touchy with Finn as she is with Santana, and Finn was her _boyfriend_.  

Her and Santana's relationship could probably be considered an odd one—which Kurt never fails to point out whenever he catches them snuggling on the couch or sharing food in the kitchen—but do they really look that domesticated to the outside viewer? Rachel doesn’t know whether to be exhilarated or wary of this realization.

(But, despite all of this, she and Santana _are_ just friends—as she’s been called a thousand times over every time Santana introduces her to somebody new and they get the wrong idea.)

Rachel doesn’t mean for her voice to sound so hopeless and hollow when she speaks, but it ends up coming out like that anyway, when she says, “Santana's not my girlfriend. We aren't dating."

"But you'd like to,” is Cassandra’s immediate response. “Date her, I mean.” She says it like she already knows, and dear God, is it really that obvious? First Angela, then Daniel, next that androgynous man at the airport, and now her dance instructor? Is there like, a pink neon sign hanging over her forehead, flashing the words, ‘ _Hopelessly in love with Santana Lopez_ ’?

Rachel fidgets where she’s standing. “I don't think this is an appropriate conversation to be having with one of my instructors."

"Relax, Schwimmer. I'm here to _guide_ you, and since I have no body fat, the only thing I'm full of is advice and wisdom.” Cassandra slides down to the wooden floor as she bends her legs into a butterfly position, and after a moment of hesitation, Rachel follows her lead.

This is so bizarre, talking to her teacher about _this_ , of all things, but she really has nothing left to lose anyway. Miss July clearly looks like she wants to help, and not like, humiliate her.

“The good thing?” Cassandra arches an eyebrow as she bends forward and touches her chin to her knees. “Your friend knows a hot piece of ass when she sees one, but she didn't go after me, and do you know why?" Rachel shakes her head, so Cassandra continues, "Because I am an older woman, and most likely, I intimidate her. Your friend looks like the type who'll only go after what she can handle to keep from getting her heart broken, so if there's _any_ reason she hasn't shown interest in you, it's because of that. She's either afraid of rejection and doesn't think she has a chance,” Cassandra reasons, shrugging a shoulder, “or she is just _that_ clueless."

Rachel hasn’t heard any advice yet. This all just sounds like an opinion.

“All of your other teenybopper friends probably told you to tell her how you feel, because who knows, she could like you back, yeah?” Rachel nods, because that sounds about right. “For the love of God Almighty, do _not_ do that,” Cassandra warns, shaking her head adamantly. “You know what you do? You _seduce_ her.”

Rachel almost chokes on laughter, because the last time she tried to seduce somebody, they ended up calling her a sad hooker clown, and that was _Finn_ , who admittedly shouldn’t have been that hard to seduce. “Um. That’s not going to work. I can’t seduce Santana.”

“Why not?”

“Because…” she trails off, pulling her knees up into her chest. This is so awkward. “Santana’s not attracted to me. She would think I’m just kidding and then laugh in my face.”

Cassandra smirks. “And that’s why you’ll have to sell it.”

“No, no, this was a bad idea.” Rachel laughs dryly to herself as she gets up from off the floor. “Let’s just pretend this conversation never happened.”

She’s grabbing her bag from out one of the corners in the dance studio when Miss July calls out her name again, sounding frustrated and amused all at the same time.

“What?” Rachel says, refusing to turn around on her way out.

“Fine. I’ll admit seduction was a shitty idea, but how about a long con,” she proposes, and Rachel freezes, listening carefully to the sound of footsteps clicking in her direction until her instructor reappears right in front of her. “I tried this when I was a lovesick student in college, and it came through for me. It’ll take a few months and a willing closet case, but it works like a charm every time.”

Rachel averts her eyes to the mirror and looks at her reflection. This has trouble written all over it. If the sly grin on Cassandra’s face doesn’t give it away, then the expression _long con_ should definitely clue Rachel into the fact that she’s about to make a deal with the devil.

But at this point, Rachel’s willing to do anything. She’s tired of coming in last when she always puts Santana first.

She glances away from her reflection in the mirror to look up at Cassandra. “I'm listening.”

—

Of course once Rachel and Kurt finish planning Santana's surprise party does Santana tell them she has an idea as to what she wants to do for her birthday.

“Just dinner and a movie with my closest bitches,” she says from where she’s sitting at the kitchen counter, and Rachel’s stomach drops, because she, Kurt, and Henry already called all of their friends (and acquaintances) to come out on Santana’s birthday, but all the girl wants is dinner and a movie?

In all honesty, Rachel knew Santana wouldn't be into something like this, but Henry had insisted the look on Santana's face would be totally worth it.

(Actually, that might not be such a good thing, now that Rachel thinks about it.)

Rachel’s smile is strained. “Dinner…” she says, pursing her lips, “…and a _movie_?”

“Yeah. I mean, you don’t have to go fucking wild with it. It’s only my nineteenth, and it’s not like I know anybody out here anyway—well, anyone I like, at least,” she adds, shrugging a shoulder, “So hanging out with you losers will be good enough for me.”

Rachel blanches, and then shoots a look to Kurt, who appears a bit pale himself. He pretends to be busy, though, until Santana has to leave for work, and then Rachel goes, “I told you so.”

“We’re still throwing the party,” Kurt says, quite clearly disregarding every word he just heard Santana say.

“But that’s not what she wants.”

“Like Santana’s ever known what she wants. Her interests change from day to day, from the women she likes, to the people she hates. It’s an ongoing trend that never ceases to confuse and exhaust me. Believe me, Rachel, when I say she’ll love this.”

“I don’t know. Santana—well, she’s changed since she’s moved out here,” Rachel says, nervously wringing her fingers together. “She’s not the same girl she used to be.”

“Which was…”

Rachel rolls her eyes at him and then plops down on the couch. “Santana likes close, intimate outings with her friends. She’s very sensitive when it comes to that.”

Kurt makes a face. “I don’t want to know how you know this.”

“We’re close, Kurt,” she reasons, turning her attention to the television to refrain from seeing the knowing expression on Kurt’s face. “Santana’s my…I’m not really sure if _best friends_ does it anymore, because we mean so much to each other.”

Kurt rounds the couch and then perches himself on the armrest beside her. “Careful, Rachel, you sound like you’ve got yourself a little crush,” he teases.

She laughs off the idea, but realistically, she’s hurting inside.

\--

Down at the corner store, the female store clerk asks for Santana when Kurt and Rachel stop by to pick up some last minute party supplies.

Kurt mentions that it's Santana's birthday, that they're throwing a party, and, “You know what, you should stop by, have a drink,” he tells her, and Rachel smiles weakly in agreement before leaving them to find the guacamole dip.

There are girls waiting for Santana everywhere. The list never ends, and Rachel's just now starting to realize that she’s one of the pathetic girls on that list.

\--

Rachel doesn't know how Santana's going to react to this, because her roommate and surprises have never really gotten along. The birthday girl is out with Cole under the assumption that they’re on a scavenger hunt for this elephant antique from India—Rachel honestly doesn’t know how Santana fell for that one—while they all set up for the party.

Rachel had originally volunteered to distract Santana, but Kurt had made this face—a face he’s been making way too much lately—and told her it made more sense if the person who actually lived in their apartment helped decorate it.

Henry’s here, too. He’s the muscle, moving around tables and chairs and furniture to make room for a dance floor, while Kurt and Rachel hang up streamers, chop the ice, and set out the food.

People start arriving about fifteen minutes later. Not a crazy amount. Just a few friends here and there; Rachel’s classmates from her dance and vocal classes, Kurt’s friends from the costume department and the Adam’s Apples, Henry’s colleagues from the New York Journal.

Watching the crowd increase, Rachel starts getting nervous that none of their friends from Lima are going to make it—which wouldn’t be good, because this is a party for Santana, and who throws a party without inviting not one person the birthday girl knows?—but then Noah busts through the front door with a six pack of beer, along with Mercedes, who’s holding a gift bag in her hand.

(They were the only two available and able to make it out to New York on such short notice, because supposedly Noah is shacking up with some cougar in Jersey, and Mercedes was in town because her aunt lives in the Bronx.)

She greets Mercedes first, asks how things are going in Los Angeles, and in turn, Rachel tells a funny anecdote— _she_ thinks it’s funny, at least—about her life in New York. Then Rachel introduces Mercedes to some of the people from her vocal class, and they immediately hit it off.

“Well, if it isn’t my Jewish Princess.” Noah picks her up from behind, squeezes her against him, and Rachel squeals through a laugh, swatting at his shoulder to let her down.

Admittedly, she’s still a little upset with him over leaving Santana outside drunk in the freezing cold, but she is happy to see him again, so she hugs Noah back and then immediately pushes him away when he tries to cop a feel.

Sometime later, once everyone’s arrived, Angela sidles up beside Rachel and asks, “Who is that hunk of a man, and please tell me he’s single.” Her eyes are pinned to Noah, practically digesting him with her stare as if he’s a juicy piece of steak.

Ew.

“His name’s Noah, and he’s…” She actually has no idea what _shacking up with a cougar_ could be defined as, so, “It’s complicated,” she says, because that’s the safest way to go.

But Angela doesn’t even look the slightest bit deterred as she takes a sip of her drink. She’s totally undressing him, right in front of Rachel’s eyes, so Rachel sneakily slips away into the kitchen to make sure everything’s set up and in order for the party.

But when she turns around, a shoulder knocks against her. A voice apologizes, a familiar voice, and Rachel glances up to find Daniel looking down at her. He smiles weakly, obviously trying to remain polite, which is something Finn would have never bothered with in high school had he been mad at her.

Rachel smiles back, and then moves aside to restock the fridge, and Daniel follows a few steps behind. He’s not hovering, but she can still feel his presence from over her shoulder.

“Look, Rachel,” he sighs, sounding tired and apologetic all in one deep breath. “I think we should clear the air. It was wrong of me to pressure you into dating me.” When Rachel turns back around, Daniel’s anxiously twisting a hand around his bottle of beer. “You don’t like me, and that’s cool. I shouldn’t have been so pushy, and I definitely shouldn’t have made you feel bad for rejecting me. I’m really sorry, Rachel.”

Rachel nods curtly, bowing her head as she curls a strand of hair behind her ear. Despite how horrible she was treated in high school, she’s always believed people deserve more than one chance to make up for their mistakes. Daniel’s obviously learned from this experience, and that’s really all that matters.  

“I accept your apology, Daniel,” she says, smiling up at him, and Daniel looks so relieved that he grins shyly and then wraps her up in a quick hug.

“It’d be great if we could, I don’t know, be friends,” he says, pulling away. “ _Actual_ friends, not just me hoping for something mo—”

Daniel’s words are cut off when the scattered crowd from in the living area yells out a loud _surprise_ , and Rachel blanches as she pushes past Daniel and out of the kitchen, because they weren’t supposed to be home for another fifteen minutes.

Surprisingly, Santana actually looks happier about the party than Rachel thought she'd be. As she goes around and says hello to everyone, she somehow catches Rachel’s eye with an impish smirk through all of the disarray, pandemonium, and chaos, and all of a sudden, the massive OCD freak out she's had for the last week and a half was all totally worth it.

—

Sometime within the next half hour, Gwen steps up beside Rachel, and asks, "So, where's that Quinn girl? I thought you invited her.”

She checks the time on her phone, because she actually did invite Quinn, despite the persistent devil on her shoulder. It was only right, though she's not going to say she's upset the girl has yet to show up.

Rachel looks around for her roommate, but Santana's gone, and it’s like déjà vu when Rachel spots her out on the fire escape. But she’s alone this time, smoking a cigarette and gazing down at the alley beneath her.

Rachel takes a quick sip of her drink and then passes it over to Gwen before making her way across the living area and through the window.

She shuts her eyes tightly against the smoke permeating around the fire escape and waves it away with a cough. "Hey,” she says, rubbing at her arms, because it’s March, not quite spring yet.

Santana looks over her shoulder and smirks. “Hey yourself,” she says, fiddling with the cigarette held loosely between her fingers. "What are you doing out here?"

"I think I should be asking you that question considering it's _your_ birthday party."

"Smoke break," Santana offers lamely. She holds out a pack of cigarettes and then laughs when Rachel waves her hand with a disgusted crinkle in her nose. Santana shrugs and says, “Your loss,” and Rachel smiles sadly, remembering all that she’s never even had.

"Santana," she says softly, coming up beside her roommate. She looks Santana in the eye, carefully, because she knows this is about something more. Something deeper. “Are you okay?”

Dark hair covers the sides of Santana's face like a curtain as she breathes out a sigh and whispers, “Dandy.”

Rachel frowns, because yeah, that response pretty much means the exact opposite. You’d think she’d be a pro at getting information out of Santana by now, but Santana’s just one of those puzzles she’ll never be able to solve.

Santana tugs at the edges of her sleeves and shivers, and Rachel has to physically restrain herself from slipping into Santana’s side to hold her. Instead, she inches down the railing and rests her hand beside Santana’s. “You can talk to me, you know.”

“I know,” Santana dismisses, averting her eyes in the other direction.

Rachel decides to start small, and so she asks, “Is it about Cole?" because she knows it more than likely has nothing to do with her, hopefully.

Santana scoffs through a lazy smile. "No."

"Quinn?" she asks, hesitantly stroking her pinky finger against the side of Santana’s hand.

Santana looks down with an odd look and then moves her hand away. “Why would it be about Quinn?" There’s a defensiveness to Santana’s tone that Rachel recognizes as both deflection and aggression, so she decides not to push the topic of Quinn.

She’d really rather not talk about her anyway.

"No reason,” Rachel drawls, and then turns around to lean up against the metal railing, folding her arms over her chest to fend off the cold.

They're quiet for a moment as Santana takes another drag and then switches the cigarette to her other hand. She looks down and fiddles with the cigarette between her fingers.

It’s barely above a whisper when Santana says, “She didn't come."

"Quinn?" Rachel asks, almost automatically.

"No," Santana says, side-eyeing Rachel strangely before looking back down at her hands. "Britt." It’s said so lowly that Rachel barely hears her words, but she does hear it, and for a long time neither of them say anything. “Did you invite her?” Santana wonders, after a moment.

It was an event on Facebook, so, “Technically, yeah.”

“Then why—“ Santana cuts herself off and lets out a throaty laugh; it's a sad sound, and Rachel tries not to cringe at the harshness behind it. "She hasn't even called or texted. Probably too caught up with Sam to even realize it's my fucking birthday today."

Rachel moves a little closer to Santana. If the other girl was to ask why, Rachel would just blame it on the cold, but Santana doesn’t ask. Instead, she sniffles, moves just a little bit closer to Rachel, and then stays there. Rachel pushes away the urge to smile, because this isn’t about her.

This isn’t about reigning in her proximity to Santana compared to all the other women in her life. This isn’t about using Santana’s vulnerability to her advantage. Santana’s noticeably hurting, and as her best friend, it’s Rachel’s job to help her. “I thought you said you were over her," she says, glancing up at Santana.

"Oh, I am," Santana concedes, nodding her head jerkily.

Rachel doesn't think she looks too sure, but she doesn't say so. If Santana doesn't feel like talking about what’s on her mind, in her heart, then there is pretty much nothing anyone can do to make her. She'll open up when she's ready.

"I am totally moving on," she continues, pursing her lips, and then says, under her breath, "If Brittany can do it with someone we both know, so can I."

Rachel raises a brow at that. "Someone you both know?"

Santana lolls her head to the side, lips twisted into a smirk. "Well, I guess I might as well tell you. It's been killing me keeping this from you anyway." She smiles shyly, and Rachel can't really explain why her heart is pounding so hard in her chest all of a sudden.

There’s a loaded pause as Santana stares past the smoke drifting up from her cigarette. “Quinn and I…we did the dirty at Schuester's wedding," she confesses without even a hint of shame. She actually looks mighty proud of it, which makes Rachel a little sick to her stomach. Standing on her tiptoes, Santana tilts her chin up and yells, "Who's moving on now, _Brittany S Pierce?_ "

Her voice echoes throughout the deserted alleyway, and then she laughs to herself; a dark and humorless laugh, undoubtedly filled with pain and heartache.

Rachel stares at her silently, willing away the flood of tears itching to be released. “So, you and Quinn did have sex,” she whispers, taking a small step to the side and away from Santana.

Amused and unaware, Santana snorts and then taps the tail end of her cigarette, flicking a clump of ash over the railing. "Fucked is more like it."

Rachel wraps her arms around her midsection and blankly stares across the alleyway at the tall brownstone next door. Technically, she already knew this, but to have it be confirmed, to hear the words come out of Santana’s mouth, is harder to handle than Rachel originally thought it’d be.

“How could you?"

She knows she's overreacting, because Santana isn't hers—never has been, and probably never will be—but the confirmation that Santana actually gave a piece of herself to Quinn that she'll never be granted access to really, really hurts.

"How could I what?" Santana leans forward, resting her forearms against the railing. It rattles noisily, but Santana doesn't seem too concerned as she brings the cigarette back to her lips. "Britt'll get over it," she scoffs, shaking her head, "and that's only if she ever finds out, which is pretty slim to none considering the small amount of people who know."

Rachel clenches her jaw. "Santana—"

"And yeah," she goes on, completely tactless, "I know it might be a little weird, being that Quinn is both our friend, but believe me, she's been real chill about the whole thing."

Pursing her lips, Santana blows out a cloud of smoke. It floats right in front of Rachel's face, so if Santana asks, she'll blame her tears on that.  

"She didn't even have a gay panic, which is definitely what I would call progress," she adds, shrugging carelessly.

Leaning against the railing beside Santana, Rachel takes a deep breath before asking, "How many times?"

She knows she's overstepped a boundary when Santana scrunches up her nose and side-eyes her incredulously. "Excuse me?"

"How many times, Santana?" Rachel repeats herself, and it surprises her how much she really wants to know the answer. She wants to know if what happened between her two friends was just a drunken mistake, or if Santana and Quinn are actually forming something that she’ll forever be left out of. "How many times did you..." God, how to word this, "... _do_ her?" she asks brazenly, narrowing her eyes sharply on Santana.

"Um, whoa," Santana murmurs, obviously caught off guard as she backs away from the railing. "I don't really see how any of this—"

"And answer _this_ question for me, Santana," Rachel interrupts, exasperated, "because I seem to be lacking a few important social skills when it comes to relationships."

She's pacing now. She's pacing on a damn _fire escape_ , and she must really be upset if the faint rattling noise doesn't even strike a nerve of fear in her. She's just so angry. Angry that Santana would choose Quinn out of everyone they know to use as a rebound. Rachel knows it's stupid and possibly the most pathetic thought she's ever had, but if Santana can so easily give herself away to Quinn, then why not her?

"What does Quinn have that made you sleep with her?" She's yelling now, and Santana's looking at her like she's absolutely lost her mind. Maybe she has. "Actually, I think the better question would be what did _all_ of those girls have back in September, and what does _Cole_ have, because you seem to bed as many women as you can before going after one you may _actually_ care about."

Once she's finished, Santana just stares at her. Every second that passes without a word only escalates the tension building between them. Knitting her eyebrows together, Santana shakes her head in confusion before anger takes over her features.

"While I admire your major balls right now," she says evenly, straightening her posture, shoulders stiffer than they were before. "I suggest you back off, Berry. What I do with my sex life is frankly none of your fucking business." She throws her cigarette down and stomps on it heavily. The whole fire escape shakes, yet neither of them move a muscle. Santana's voice is considerably less harsh, merely a soft whisper, when she says, "And I would truly appreciate it if you wouldn't corner me and then interrogate me about sex with Quinn of all things _on my damn birthday_. I mean, have you lost your fucking mind or something?”

Petulant, Rachel crosses her arms with a huff. “You need to have a mind to lose one.”

Scoffing, Santana shoulders past her and then steps back into the party. Rachel exhales raggedly and grips the railing so hard her knuckles turn white.

She doesn't cry, because that would be stupid. It's not like she just lost Santana or anything. She never even had her in the first place. It would be stupid to cry, though despite her protest and clenching jaw, a lone tear does make an appearance. It falls fast and without much regard to her perfectly applied makeup.

Rachel spends another three minutes out on the fire escape, breathing in as much fresh air as she can and distantly hoping Santana will come back out to talk to her about what just happened.

But she's left alone.

No one comes out to look for her, or to find out where she's disappeared, and Santana doesn't come back at all, so Rachel decides it's time to go back inside. It’s cold, and she already feels like crap. It wouldn't exactly be the smartest idea to catch the flu.

\--

Quinn arrives just as Rachel is stepping through the window. She watches with bloodshot eyes as Quinn goes straight to Santana and then wishes her a happy birthday, kissing her on the cheek before whispering something into her ear with a knowing smirk.

Her lips are practically grazing Santana's earlobe like she's a slice of simmering bacon, and just the sight of them together makes Rachel feel queasy inside. She tries to avoid them both for the rest of the party, but there's just no getting away from Quinn.

Rachel feels a heavy hand clamp down on her shoulder while she's chatting up some NYADA upperclassmen about off-Broadway audition opportunities. The only reason she turns around with a smile is because she thinks it's Kurt trying to slip his way into the conversation, but when Rachel comes face to face with those bright hazel eyes, all she can do is bristle and stare.

The happy smile on Quinn's lips immediately slip away. "Hello, Rachel,” she greets hesitantly, dropping her hand from off Rachel's shoulder. "Is there...something wrong?"

Clearing her throat, Rachel works her hardest to train her features into a surprised smile. It takes some effort, especially with the unbridled anger flowing through her, but she is an actress, after all, and it seems Quinn actually buys it when she excitedly says, "Hi, Quinn, you made it," and goes in for a tight hug, adding, "Sorry, I thought you were this creep who hasn't left me alone all evening."

"Just point me in the right direction and I'll take care of him," Quinn threatens, cheeky smile back in place as she pulls out of their embrace. "I'm so tired of men who just can't take a hint. It drives me up a wall when someone continually goes after a woman who obviously doesn't want them, you know?"

Rachel nods along with a forced smile. Of course she gets it. She's been there before too, but now her agreement feels all too hypocritical to actually voice aloud.

Quinn continues to jabber and blabber on about Yale and her urban anthropology class and her global women studies course, and Rachel plasters on a smile, doing her very best to pretend to listen with as much interest as possible, when what she really wants to do is claw at Quinn’s perfect face.

Instead of adding her input, Rachel scopes out the loft for Santana. She finds her standing by the kitchen entrance, alone, nursing a bottle of beer.

Their eyes meet after a few seconds, and Rachel tries to hold it as long as possible, tries to express everything she feels for the other girl through just their eye contact alone.

Santana gazes on for a short moment before looking away. She's still upset, Rachel can tell. Everything Santana feels is right there in her eyes, always is, but once the sight of that is gone, everything else surrounding them remains unknown.

\--

It’s late, probably around two in the morning, and Rachel’s doing the dishes. It could probably wait until tomorrow—or later today, really—but she couldn’t sleep, and cleaning relaxes her sometimes, so here she is.

Santana still hasn’t spoken to her since what happened out on the fire escape, and Rachel honestly doesn’t know if she’s put two and two together yet. There’s really no other explanation for why she would’ve went off on Santana about her relations with Quinn Fabray. Nothing other than jealousy. Though, somehow, Santana always manages to come up with a conflicting reason that correlates to what’s _actually_ going on.

Rachel can’t wait to hear what the other girl grabs out of thin air this time.

Everyone started trickling out of their loft about an hour ago, leaving the place a hot mess, but Kurt is fast and neat, so it didn’t take too long to get the house back in order.

Santana had headed out with Noah, Mercedes, and Quinn to spend the night at his hotel room, and Rachel was offered to come along, of course, but she’d declined after seeing the look on Santana’s face when Noah extended the invitation. It would’ve been nice to catch up with her friends more, but Kurt needed help cleaning up, and it would’ve been rude to leave him with all the work.

Rachel’s scrubbing out a greasy pan when she hears footsteps slowly padding around the island. “I can hear you, if you’re trying to frighten me,” she says, and then glances over her shoulder with a smirk.

“Oh drat. You caught me,” Kurt says dryly, rolling his eyes, because he obviously had no intent in scaring her. “What are you doing up so late—or shall I say, early?”

She never really went to bed, so late, she supposes. “I could ask you the same thing.”

There’s more padding around the kitchen, and then Kurt’s right beside her, picking up her soapy hands and wiping them off with a dry towel. “Put the dishes down, Rachel,” he says, when she refuses to let go with her other hand.

He smiles and splashes water at her.  “Ah, stop, Kurt,” she squeals, dropping the plate in the dish rack.

Kurt drags her away from the sink and out of the kitchen. “Then be obedient and come with me.”

He sits her on the couch, and then plops down beside her. Rachel raises a brow, because usually when he tugs her away from the dishes, he either takes over, or he brings her to bed. Neither of that has happened yet.

“Why do I feel like I’m about to hear _the talk_?’ she asks, because he’s looking at her like her dads had right before telling her about safe sex and contraceptives and self-respect, and Rachel really doesn’t need to have another experience like that until she’s discussing the subject with her own children.

Kurt looks mildly uncomfortable as he scratches at his elbow through his sleep shirt. “It was really nice what you did, inviting Quinn to Santana’s party today,” he says, because Rachel hadn’t told him she was going to do that. It was really just a spur of the moment thing, and it didn’t require bringing up, in her opinion. The less she has to talk about that girl the better. “I just,” Kurt continues, clearly struggling for words. “It was very mature of you to do that, especially in regard to how much distaste you acquire for the girl.”

Distaste is an understatement, but Rachel decides not to voice her envious thoughts. Instead, she pastes on a smile and then nods. “Quinn’s always been a close friend of hers, and somehow I highly doubted Brittany would be able to make it,” she murmurs, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “It was really nothing.”

Except that’s a lie, because pressing send on that email had been one of the hardest and most selfless actions she’s made in a long time, or maybe even ever. It feels like she’s been lying to everyone these days, including her own reflection in the mirror. And now she’s lying to Kurt, who’s always been the one to see right through her.

He arches an eyebrow. There’s a challenging tone to his voice when he says, “You know, there’s always been an odd tension between you and Quinn, but it’s different now. It’s…one-sided. While Quinn is fine, you seem to be a little on edge, Rachel. Is it just me, or—”

“It’s just you,” Rachel rushes to say, and then clears her throat when her voice cracks on the last word.

Kurt’s silent for a long moment, eyes squinted thoughtfully, and Rachel shivers against the temperature contrast in the room. The apartment is cool, but her body feels hot all of a sudden.

Sighing through his nose, Kurt bites down on the corner of his lip and then says, “Rachel, sweetie, this started off as sweet and…” he trails off, searching for the right words, “and… _endearing_ , even, but I can't continue to stand by and watch you torture yourself any longer."

Rachel plays his words back, but all she’s left with is confusion. “I’m sorry, but what…what are you implying, Kurt?”

"You're in love with Santana,” he says bluntly.

She’s never heard the words repeated back to her, and it sounds almost as ridiculous as it has in her head this entire time. _You’re in love with Santana_. Although this realization and fact is always there in the back of her head—and heart—it still tends to rattle her when the words are said aloud.

Kurt’s always been naturally astute and irritatingly nosy, so it’s not too much of a surprise that he knows, or at least has an idea of how she feels, but some part of Rachel—the defensive and embarrassed part of her—wants to deny it to no end.

She tries to laugh off his words, but it gets caught in her throat and ends up sounding more like a high-pitched squeal. “No, that’s…” she says, still smiling weakly, so weak that it hurts her cheekbones. “In love…with _Santana_? Kurt, that is just—"

"Absurd? Insane? _Crazy_?” he lists off, eyebrows raised to his hairline. “Yes, I completely agree, but that doesn't make it any less true."

Rachel stares at him, doe-eyed and a little bit hurt before nodding silently, because she doesn’t know what else to do in response to that critical remark. Her heart is racing, and she feels a bit cornered, but she can tell by the look on Kurt’s face that he understands. He’s never been in love with his lesbian roommate, but all unrequited love stings with the same balance of pain and sweetness.

Tears brim at the corner of her eyes, but she pushes them away and lets out an empty laugh. It’s dark and hollow, but at least this one is real, and it comes from deep down within the depths of her clenching stomach.

“How did you know?" she asks him, glancing up with a trembling smile.

Kurt offers her a smile back, one just as weary and sad. “Well, for one, I'm not nearly as clueless as our roommate,” he jokes softly, resting a comforting hand on her knee. The touch distantly reminds her to keep breathing. “And it's kind of written all over your face half the time. Either Santana's just that blind, or she's choosing to ignore it."

Rachel sighs, and in a small voice, “You think she knows?”

"Honestly? No. I think she has no idea,” Kurt tells her, which should probably make her feel better, but it only succeeds in dampening her mood even further.

If Santana had at least an idea, then all of the flirting and fleeting glances and small smiles might’ve meant _something_ this entire time, but if Santana really has no idea…then it’s meant nothing. Nothing but goofing off and quick looks and meaningless smirks.

“I know you probably don't want to hear this, Rachel, but it's something you _need_ to hear.” Kurt takes her hand, and it’s reassuring, but nothing like what Santana’s touch makes her feel. “She doesn't like you the way you like her or else she would've done something about it by now. If it's one thing I'm positive about, it's that Santana doesn't shy away from what she wants. She goes after them."

Rachel wants to move away from him for making her feel like this, for telling her truths she’s never wanted to face, but instead she squeezes his hand even tighter as her lower lip trembles pathetically. “Why are you telling me this?” she practically whispers, and then wipes away a tear with her free hand.

“As bad as it sounds, I'm trying to crush your hopes,” he admits, wincing guiltily. “It can be a very dangerous thing if you let it bloom for too long. You need to let this go, Rachel."

A sob racks through her body as more tears dampen her cheeks. She doesn’t wipe them away this time. They’re falling too fast, and Rachel’s much too tired to do anything about it. Kurt’s seen her cry before—over a million times about Finn Hudson—but it’s obvious he’s not expecting this influx of emotion over Santana Lopez. His eyes widen apologetically as he hurriedly brings her into his arms.

“Oh, Rachel, sweetie,” he coos into her ear, rubbing at her back as she hiccups through her cries.

Rachel always feels so small in his embrace. Kurt’s definitely grown since they were sophomores in high school, and she only ever notices it when he hugs her like this, arms wrapped tightly around her body as she shakes and sobs into his shoulder.  

“What do you think I've been trying to do this entire time?” Rachel cries, coming up for air. She sniffles and then rubs at her red nose, and Kurt looks at her brokenly as he hands her a handkerchief from out his pocket. “I _tried_ to get over her. I did, I _really_ tried,” she rambles on, wiping at her raw eyes. “You think I want to always feel like I'm second best, Kurt? She slept with _Quinn_ , one of her best friends, so it has nothing to do with her not wanting to ruin our friendship.”

Rachel takes a deep breath, because she’s getting hysterical, and her throat is starting to hurt from her sobbing. Bowing her head, she pinches a loose strand of fabric from off of her jeans and sighs.

“I guess I'm just not what she wants."

“More the reason to move on, Rachel,” Kurt says, and Rachel nods in silent agreement as she looks up to find he has tears in his eyes too, and she feels bad, because she really didn’t mean to make him cry.

Kurt is actually happy with what’s going on in his life. He’s got a boyfriend he loves, he’s one of the lead singers in the Adam’s Apples, and Cole is finally starting to listen to his ideas in regard to the costumes for Hairspray.

It’s been a very long time since Rachel’s felt entirely secure with her life and her friends and herself. Kurt’s happy. Rachel wants to be happy too. She wants to stop hoping for something she knows will never be. Kurt’s right. It’s a begrudging admittance, but it’s true. It’s gotten to the point where she just _can’t_ anymore.

Trying has become too hard and exhausting, and it’s time to do something new.

It’s time to move on.

 

 

 


	2. this party's over

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry these chapters have been so terribly long. in the future i'll try to split them up into more chapters to help shorten the length :)

Santana gets into NYU, but Rachel doesn't find out until she _mistakenly_ stumbles upon Santana's twitter page, where there's a post that reads, _Who's the pole dancer now? This bitch got into NYU. #laterforyoumofos_

The amount of time in which she spends staring at her computer screen is the definition of embarrassing. The expression on her face as she reads the post over and over again is even more humiliating, never mind the fact that half of their friends have already retweeted and liked the post. Granted, Rachel doesn’t spend a lot of time poking around online, but she definitely shouldn’t have been the last one to find out.

She _lives_ with Santana. They see each other every day. Rachel was the main person—besides Quinn—who helped Santana with her college application, so how come she's just finding out about her acceptance now, and on Twitter of all places?

To say she's upset about this would be a glaring understatement. Rachel's fuming, but she reels in her anger, because if she goes to Santana upset, that'll just succeed in making Santana annoyed, and their friendship is already on the rocks—as it tends to be every other week now—so Rachel decides to take a deep breath and think this over logically.

They still haven't spoken about the _Quinn thing_. Actually, they haven’t talked about much of anything since that night. This time, it's Rachel who's in the hot seat, waiting out the silent treatment, hoping Santana will come around sometime soon, because it's only been about a week and she already misses talking to her best friend. To go from one hundred to zero in such a short amount of time is like whiplash. One minute things are heavenly, and then the next—after a few choice, regretted words—life is hell and everything has turned to crap.

Once again.

Rachel knows she could easily fix this, with an honest apology here and an _I was wrong_ there, but she's got too much pride for that. The honest to God truth is, she's not sorry for what she said out on the fire escape.

Santana needs to realize that her actions don't only affect just her. Santana needs to realize that she can't float around from woman to woman and not expect to leave a trail of broken hearts behind her. Santana needs to realize just how lovable she is, and that people do fall for her, and when they do, it's like hell trying to get over her.

Maybe Rachel could've been a little less boastful and harsh, and a bit more tactful, when trying to get her point across—because obviously Santana took everything she said and switched it up to mean something else entirely, as Santana always tends to do—but every argument Rachel made was said in the heat of the moment. Somehow, she doubts she would have ever had that kind of courage again.

Rachel knows she hit a nerve, but she can only hope it was the right one. Santana is very sensitive when it comes to having her feelings hurt, despite her being so careless in regard to how others feel. (Ironically, it always seems to be the people with hard shells and tough exteriors that are the softest and most broken up inside.)

There’s something humbling about being left on the outskirts. Rachel's gotten so used to making Santana the bad guy that she’s forgotten how awful it feels to be on the other side of things. It sucks to be avoided. It hurts when Rachel's brushing her teeth in the bathroom, and Santana doesn't jump in the shower behind her, instead waiting it out until Rachel's left for her classes. It's disconcerting when Santana watches their shows on Netflix without her and then Rachel has to catch up alone, just so they'll be on the same episode when they finally make up.

And it kind of makes her want to cry again when she enters the kitchen in the morning, and Kurt and Santana immediately stop talking. It feels just like it did back in high school, only worse now, because these people are supposed to be her friends, and Kurt is supposed to be on her side in all of this. But then, that gets her thinking, because are there even sides in the first place when Santana has absolutely no idea what’s going on? Are they even fighting? Are they mad at each other, or just a little bit upset?

Rachel doesn’t even know how to approach the situation, awkwardly shifting back and forth from where she stands near the kitchen counter as Santana quickly stuffs an orange into her bag and then heads off to work. It physically stings when the metal door slams shut behind Santana, and Rachel winces with a roll of her eyes.

“Not again,” Kurt deadpans, rubbing at his temples.

It’d be lying if Rachel said she wasn’t thinking the exact same thing. For two people who are supposed to be best friends, they sure get into a lot of needless arguments.

“On any other occasion, I'd accuse her of being childish,” Rachel says, leaning over the counter with a sigh, “but it's a slight possibility that I might deserve the cold shoulder this time."

Humming under his breath, Kurt pours himself a tall glass of cranberry juice. "Isn't there any other way you two can deal with your issues that doesn't inconvenience me nor make me feel uncomfortable in my own home?”

Rachel wishes she could say there was, but their relationship is just so unpredictable at times; when one person's feelings get hurt, it becomes extremely personal, as if they're being purposely attacked, which is why Rachel feels so bad for criticizing Santana's choice—no matter how cretinous it was—to sleep with Quinn Fabray.

She thinks it's a little absurd that Santana has yet to realize why she's so upset. But in actuality, Santana's always been quite oblivious to the things staring her right in the face. It did take her years to realize Brittany loved her back just as much as she loved the blonde, so maybe this shouldn't be much of a shock.

But despite this, Rachel has to keep reminding herself that Santana doesn't know. She has no idea how Rachel really feels about her, and it would only be immature on Rachel's part to act like a drama queen over something Santana is entirely clueless about.

"I may have yelled at Santana after she admitted to sleeping with Quinn." Kurt gives Rachel an incredulous look at her confession, so she raises her hands in defense. "I know, I know, but if you could've heard how she spoke of it, how proud she seemed to have finally— _finally_ slept with Quinn Fabray, you would've went a little off your rocker too."

With an arched brow, Kurt nods his head, but he still looks unconvinced. "Rachel, I know you like the girl, but if you don't want her to find out, it's called self-control," he tells her, "and tact."

Rachel huffs and tries to explain, because she's not being unreasonable here. "Imagine having a crush on Henry and him telling you that he slept with Lawrence for no other reason than just because he could. Imagine wishing you could tell Henry how you feel about him but not being able to get the words out,” she goes on, protectively folding her arms over her chest. “Imagine him laughing into an empty alleyway as he curses the name of his ex and then looks to you for agreement, like you should understand, but you don't, because you're in love with the person sleeping with somebody else all the damn time."

Her voice is shaky, and there are tears in her eyes. She has the biggest lump in her throat, but Kurt doesn't say anything. His eyes are downcast, averted to the counter in front of him. Rachel wipes at a tear and then takes a deep breath. She's so tired. Exhausted, even. There's really no use in imagining reality if all it's ever going to do is make her cry. So, she makes herself a promise. This will be the last time she cries over Santana Lopez.

Kurt sighs heavily, breaking the silence, and then reaches over the counter to rest a comforting hand on Rachel’s forearm. “Rachel, I completely understand—"

She knows it’s incredibly rude, and her fathers definitely taught her better, but Rachel cuts him off with a scoff anyway. “No, you don't, Kurt.” Rachel covers her flushed face with her hands, and then with a muffled voice, she says, "You don't. You don't know how I feel or what I'm going through."

She’s knows she’s put him in a difficult position, because Kurt’s become just as close to Santana as Rachel has over the last few months, and for him to keep this secret, and to remain close friends with Santana, and to control their temper tantrums all at the same time cannot be an easy thing. Never mind that he has to keep this a secret from his boyfriend, knowing Henry would blab everything to Santana once he found out the truth. This isn’t only affecting Rachel now. This could ruin their entire living arrangement. This could destroy the structure of their group of friends. Nothing has even come out yet, and Rachel can already see it all crumbling down.

Kurt’s annoyed expression remains, his back stiff as he sits up straight and crosses his legs. “I don't know what you want me to say, Rachel.”

"Just—let's just _please_ stop talking about this. I don't want to think about her right now,” Rachel pleads, and then closes her eyes, willing the rest of her tears away. “I need to focus my energy on other aspects of my life such as school and auditions, because worrying about Santana and what she wants or who she's sleeping with is only driving me insane, so what I need, Kurt, is a distraction."

Perfectly threaded eyebrows rise, and Kurt’s thoughtful frown slowly morphs into a knowing smirk. “Fabulous. I think I know just the thing."

\--

Rachel's been on a total of three auditions since coming to New York—which she should definitely be ashamed of, because it’s been five months; she should be on Broadway already, perfecting the role of Fanny Brice in the revival of the critically acclaimed play _Funny Girl_ —but there’s been other interferences and hindrances that have stolen her attention over the last couple of months.

She never meant to let her personal feelings get in the way of her professional goals, but falling in love is sometimes unexpected—she’ll even begrudgingly admit that love feels the best when you’re least expecting it—but she’s no longer going to let her feelings for Santana hold her back from what she originally came here to do.

With Santana at work practically all of the time now, Rachel barely gets to see her anymore—which might just be a blessing in disguise—and so she decides to do something on her own for once.

Rachel wouldn't exactly say her roommate has been a leech, though whenever Santana’s around, she has a strange way of stealing every bit of Rachel’s attention without even trying. Their dependency has become more than a problem as of late. They've barely been anywhere in the city separate from each other that's not either Cobblestones or NYADA. For however long it takes for them to make up, Rachel’s on her own, so she might as well use this time to her advantage.

Outside of Lima, Ohio, Santana Lopez is the sweetest, most loyal and honest person she knows. They can talk about anything together. It’s ridiculous how much they have in common, and how good they get along without even trying. Santana just gets her, and vice versa.

Rachel’s never had anything like this before, but she’s become greedy with how well Santana’s treated her, so maybe it’s time for a little tough love, and what better place to find that then out on auditions?

It was Kurt’s idea for her to start going back on auditions to help get her mind off Santana, so here she is, waiting in line at a dingy theatre in the outskirts of town. Rachel doesn’t even know how Kurt found out about this audition, but there’s a few people from her classes here, and they greet her warmly and then offer to go over some of the lines with her.

\--

She runs into Cole on her way home from vocal lessons, and Rachel tries her best to avoid her, but Cole is sometimes too friendly for her own good and ends up trapping Rachel at the corner during a red light.

Cole is just so easily beautiful that Rachel wants to hide away, because it’s so not fair. She doesn’t even try. She’s wearing these baggy jeans, a grey frumpy sweater, with tattered brown flip-flops—mind you, it’s around thirty degrees outside—and a purple beanie with a big hole in it on top of her tangled blue hair.

Cole’s attire is a complete mess. She looks like she just threw on whatever she found underneath her bed, but somehow, it’s perfect. No wonder Santana’s sleeping with her. If the girl looked a little bit cleaner, Rachel would be sleeping with her too.

Their conversation is awkward and stilted—in Rachel's opinion, at least—but Cole’s super nice, and probably a bit high, so she talks and talks, smiling as she chats away about this vegetarian recipe book she picked up from the store, and how she found a stray cat with no tail, and about this art gallery that she and Santana went to the other day.

Anything involving Santana is a sore subject, and Cole must take notice of that as soon as the words come out of her mouth. Scratching her head awkwardly, Cole frowns as she reveals that Santana misses talking to Rachel, and there’s a ping in her heart for all of two seconds, until she realizes Cole’s only telling her what she wants to hear.

Cole’s the type of person who’d rather lie than be mean, and it’s quite obvious she’s lying by the way she quickly changes the subject, from talk of Santana, to the mention of her original classical guitar composition that she’ll be performing at this jazz club in Manhattan tomorrow night.

Rachel’s invited to attend with a sincere smile, and even though she says, “Thanks, I’ll definitely try to make it,” Rachel already knows there’s no way she’ll be showing up if Santana's going.

\--

She’s watched this movie a million times over. It’s a classic, and she knows practically every line, but Santana sits down on the couch beside her halfway through the film, and it’s like watching it for the first time. Rachel holds her breath for a good thirty seconds, and then after realizing how immature that is, she lets all the air out of her lungs and practically goes light-headed.

They don't cuddle or share a blanket. They just sit on their opposite sides of the couch, completely silent, even on the commercials, refusing to even glance sideways at each other. It’s so damn awkward. They're supposed to be best friends. How can one critique over whom Santana’s sleeping with—even if it is Quinn Fabray—make things so uncomfortable between them? At this point, Rachel doesn’t even think Santana’s mad at her. She’s embarrassed. And she has a right to be.

(Santana—probably thinking Rachel would never judge her—told her best friend one of her deepest secrets; that she slept with Quinn because she’s still not over Brittany. But all Rachel did was go on a psychotic rampage about all of the women Santana’s slept with over the last few months and how they don’t mean a damn thing, basically calling her and her feelings pathetic and inconvenient for everybody.)

Rachel has a selfless love. She doesn't demand Santana love her back, and it’s lonely sometimes. It's the most heartbreaking kind of love because you have to watch the one you love fall into bed with everyone else, but she’s dealing with it the best she can, and it’s not easy. It’s probably the hardest thing she’s ever had to go through, but she can’t blame Santana for it. It’s not her fault she’s so easy to fall in love with.

“Congratulations,” Rachel says, on one of the last commercials, because the movie is almost over, and Santana has a shift from three until closing. If she doesn’t say it now, she’ll never say it at all.

Santana looks at her for a long time. Rachel can feel her roommate’s eyes practically dissecting the side of her head, but she refuses to turn around, trying her best to prolong the moment their eyes meet.

“For what?” Santana asks in a challenging tone.

“For proving everyone wrong.” Rachel smiles thinly, eyes darting sideways before refocusing on the television screen. “Including yourself.”

She can see Santana nodding from out the corner of her eye. “Yeah,” is all she says, and then the commercial is over, and Rachel starts mouthing the lines in the movie without even realizing it.

\--

She’s a mature adult, and she knows when to stay away from heartbreak when it’s staring her right in the face, but Rachel’s always been a masochist. The pain hurts so good sometimes, and she misses Santana’s hugs and warm smiles and stupid jokes, and so she drags Daniel with her down to Cobblestones after their Tuesday morning dance class.

Daniel actually seems content in moving on—which Gwen was all too happy to hear—and so the last few days have been a glorious few days of Daniel not staring longingly at her from across the dance studio. But honestly, who knows if he’s really over her, or just pretending to be over her in order to spend more time with her. Rachel knows more than anyone that crushes don’t have an off switch, but whatever’s going on with him, Daniel looks happy enough to accompany Rachel, and Rachel actually does enjoy his friendship.

They grab a booth by the window, and Rachel makes sure she’s facing the opposite direction of the ordering counter. Daniel gives her a knowing look as he asks her what she wants, and Rachel rattles off her order to him before focusing her eyes out the window.

The burning sensation on the back of her neck is a sweet torture, though Rachel's not entirely certain whether it’s from her fiery blush or the thought of Santana’s dark, heavy eyes locked on the back of her head. She’d prefer the latter, hoping Santana has actually acknowledged her presence rather than flushing like a teenager over being so close to her crush.

Though Rachel knows she's supposed to be giving Santana space, she just can't help it. It's hard to stay away from the person you're in love with, even if they are mad at you. Just knowing Santana is nearby calms her anxiety and keeps her from thinking too loudly.  

When Daniel gets back and sets down their drinks, Rachel tells him all about her audition the other day, talking at a mile a minute, because she’s nervous, and she knows Santana’s watching her. She can _feel_ it. Taking a sip of his latte, Daniel lifts an eyebrow in amusement and then mentions that Santana keeps looking back at them.

Rachel's interest is immediately piqued—and thank God, because she was starting to run out of things to talk about. "Does she look mad?" she asks, tapping her nails against the tabletop anxiously.

“No, not exactly,” he drawls, scratching at the side of his head. “She kind of looks sad." Guilt gnaws at Rachel’s stomach, and she pushes her styrofoam cup of coffee away with a sigh. Daniel eyes her questioningly. "What's going on? Did you guys get into it again?"

"I guess you could say we got into a bit of a disagreement," Rachel explains vaguely. "And now we're not talking."

Daniel nods. "That sucks," he says, stirring his straw around his milkshake. "But I mean, you guys are best friends. You can't let the small stuff get to you, you know. Just fix what's broken, and if communication's the problem, start communicating."

Rachel arches a brow. "Can it really be that simple?"

"Sure," he says, shrugging a shoulder. "If you let it."

After finishing their food, they leave the shop, but not before Rachel stops by the counter and says, "Cole says you miss me. I miss you, too," because she's trying to make things simple, and if that takes honesty, then so be it.

Santana just looks at her for a moment, a little dumbfounded, and Rachel smiles sadly before walking out of the shop with Daniel on her heels.

\--

Ever since Valentine’s Day, her dads have made it a point to call her at least twice a week to see how she’s doing, what she’s been up to. They originally wanted to give her space when she first moved to New York, but after witnessing her mini breakdown during her last visit, it must have clued them into how hard she’s dealing with things—things they think is about Finn Hudson, yet that couldn’t be any farther from the truth.

Kurt’s inside with Henry, making out on the couch. They have a bad habit of giggling and moaning through their kisses, so Rachel takes her call out into the stairwell. It’s freezing cold out here, but at least neither of her fathers will wonder if she's watching porn.

“Love you, too, Daddy." She smiles and then rolls her eyes when he tells her not to forget to brush her teeth tonight. “Don’t even try it. You know my dental hygiene is better than yours.”

Footsteps echo distantly up the stairs as Rachel says her final goodbyes, and she's just hanging up her cell phone when Santana appears at the top of the steps. They stare at each other, longer than they have in the last four days, and then Santana exhales shakily as she sits down beside Rachel. They don't say anything for a while, and Rachel wills her heartbeat to calm down.

"Not talking to you is actually harder than talking to you,” Santana says dryly, but then she turns her head, and there’s a very noticeable smirk twitching at the corner of her lips. “Who would have thought."

Rachel’s heart does a two step, and she clutches on to her cell phone for dear life. “I would have," she says, and then there's a rather uncomfortable silence. Santana plays with her fingers, picking at the skin around her cuticles, and Rachel watches her quietly before adding, "I'm sorry about what I said.”

Santana looks at her blankly, eyebrows raised. "What did you say?"

Rachel studies her for a moment, eyes narrowed slightly, wondering if Santana really has no idea what she's referring to. “You know," she prompts, gesturing to the door of their apartment. "That whole predicament with you and Qu—"

"I really have no idea what you're talking about, Rach," Santana interrupts, her voice unsteady. She takes a moment to clear her throat of its raspiness, and then tugs on the pendent of the necklace that’s around her neck.

Rachel's lost for all of two seconds, but she catches on fast, all things considering. "I suppose I don't know what I'm saying either," she whispers, awkwardly messing with the tiny ring on her pinky finger. She closes her eyes and chokes back the emotion forcing its way up her throat. It's painful, pushing tears away when all she wants to do is cry, but she promised herself that she was never going to cry over Santana Lopez again, and this is one promise she plans on keeping.

Santana sighs and wrings her fingers together in her lap. She looks seriously bothered, and Rachel watches her with a knot in her throat. "Let's just...forget the whole thing, okay?" Santana asks in a small voice, clearly embarrassed as a pink blush colors her cheeks.

Rachel leans back heavily against the wall beside her. "O-okay."

Santana breathes out a blustering sigh, and despite just asking if they can forget this ever happened, continues with, "Initially, I thought you were calling me a slut, but now I think I get it. You just want me to be happy, with _one_ girl, someone I can actually care about and officially move on from Britt with, right?”

Rachel nods, slowly and jerkily, but no, that's not exactly right. Actually, that's not the reason at all. Of course she wasn't calling her roommate a slut, but she definitely wasn't telling Santana to settle down with one girl in particular either. After hearing that it was true—that Santana and Quinn _did_ sleep together—Rachel wanted to know _why_? Why Quinn? What does she have that Rachel doesn’t? Why did Santana decide to forget her troubles and heal her open wounds by sleeping with someone who doesn't even give a damn about her, when Rachel's _right_ here—has always been right here—and could have made Santana feel so good, so loved?

Santana bites down on the inside of her cheek. "I know I worry you and Kurt and Henry sometimes with the way I'm so willing to mask pain with pleasure, but you'll soon see that it works for me, and it'd be awesome if you could respect that," she says, brushing a loose strand of hair out of her face. "Sleeping with Quinn was...it masked the pain for a little while, but I had no idea how much being with her would upset you, Rach, and I’m sorry.”

Rachel holds her breath, eyes downcast as she listens to Santana’s words. The realization did more than _upset_ her. Those words— _Quinn and I...we did the dirty at Mr. Schue's wedding_ —they absolutely tore her apart, so much that she sobbed and cried into Kurt's shoulder for a whole hour over it. But Santana will never know that. She'll always believe what she sees, and Rachel has no one to blame for that but herself.

"In hindsight, I probably should've known," Santana says, apologetically. "The two of you have never gotten along, and now I'm kind of in the middle of two friendships. I honestly didn't know it was going to make things so awkward between us, but I guess with everybody's lives being all intermingled through high school and glee club, it can be kinda weird, you know," Santana's frown slowly slips into a teasing smirk as she casually lifts a hand, gesturing to Rachel, adding, "especially for the third wheel who's not getting any."

Cheeks burning, Rachel cracks a smile. It's not funny, not in the slightest, but in the whole scheme of things, at least they have something to laugh about; Rachel's lack of sex. "Who says I'm not getting any?" she drawls, blushing on the inside just as much as on the outside.

"Oh, please, you're so uptight and rigid I almost mistook you for a gargoyle," Santana scoffs, slapping a hand down on Rachel's leg. "If you were having some good sex, I'd be the first to know about it."

 _Because it’d be you I’m having sex with_ , Rachel thinks to herself, gazing up at Santana with heavy eyes, and Santana must take notice of the distant look in Rachel's expression, because she scoots over on the steps until there's no more room between them. They're touching, hip to hip, and Santana's hand is on Rachel's thigh, squeezing tenderly, probably hoping to comfort and reassure her, yet all she's really doing is making Rachel unbearably hot.  

"Please don't feel like I'm closer to her now because of this, Rach." Santana looks her in the eye, with this bold stare, and it kind of warms Rachel's heart; how deep Santana's in this friendship with her, how willing she is to make Rachel feel comfortable in regards to the private lives surrounding them. Santana allows a small smile to slip past her serious expression. "You have to understand. You're still my number one homegirl, no matter who's in my bed at night, okay?"

Rachel's eyes remain glued to the hand currently stroking up and down her thigh. It might be a force of habit for Santana to touch women like this, but Rachel honestly can't say she minds. "Okay," she murmurs, completely unsure as to what she's even agreeing to, and then she's wrapped up in a strong hug before she even knows what's happened.

Rachel has no other instinct but to hug back, so she squeezes Santana tightly, closes her eyes, and breathes in the smell of everything Santana as she rests her head against her best friend's chest.

\--

Santana gives Rachel a copy of her unedited screenplay, as a truce of some sort, and Rachel takes the manuscript with a smile, promising Santana that she’ll read it from cover to cover.

As soon as Santana’s out the door, Rachel makes herself a cup of tea and then snuggles up on the couch with the heavy pile of papers. She’s engrossed the minute her eyes begin raking over Santana’s words, and she doesn’t stop reading until Kurt pops up from behind her and says, “That’s you.”

Rachel almost spills her cup over. “What?”

“Is Santana writing an autobiography now?” Kurt asks, rounding the couch before plopping down beside her.

“No. Why?”

Kurt smiles, as if she should already know what he’s talking about. He gingerly takes the script out of her hands and then points to one of the character descriptions. “That’s you,” he repeats, eyebrows raised.

Rachel almost laughs at the absurd implication. “Kurt, that is—”

“ _You_ ,” he says, cutting her off, and then reads the words aloud. “Short, loud brunette with an ambition so scary she terrifies herself at times.”

Rachel rolls her eyes, because that hardly fits her, but then she _really_ thinks about it. She thinks about the advice she had given Santana to write what she knows and recreate her experiences, and it seems that’s exactly what she’s done.

“Santana’s writing about you, honey, and whether she did it intentionally or not, she did it,” Kurt says, giving her a look, yet Rachel’s unsure of how to read his expressions anymore.

Really, that arched eyebrow, paired with those judgmental, pursed lips could mean anything.

"And..." she drawls, shifting uncomfortably on the couch. "What does that mean?"

Kurt shrugs. "Either she's trying to get under your skin," he suggests, thoughtfully, with a wicked grin. "Or you're starting to get under hers." 

—

Despite the fact they've made up, Rachel still promises herself to use auditioning as a tool of distraction. They may be back in the same book, but they'll never be on the same page, and it's about time Rachel does something different with her time here in New York.

She'll never make a name for herself sitting in the back of Cobblestones after her classes every day, so instead she goes on any audition she can, either for her school, or for small off-Broadway productions funded by NYADA.

She informs Santana that she won't be around much anymore to walk home with her after her shift, and despite that being Santana's favorite part of the day, she tells Rachel that she understands. "You didn't come to New York to screw around. You came to fuck things up and take names, and you'll never accomplish that sitting in the back of a rank place like Cobblestones."

Having Santana's support in all of this is only the first step. The second step is preparing for the audition. Since school has started, Rachel hasn't had any extracurricular activities, at all. Not like Kurt, who's involved in anything he lays his eyes on. The Adam's Apples first performance is coming up after spring break, and Hairspray will be opening in a few weeks, so he's been extremely busy, unlike Rachel, who's done nothing but attend her core classes and then aimlessly follow Santana around like a lost puppy.

It's slightly alarming how out of touch she's been with her old self, and Rachel's kind of unsure whether that's a good thing or a bad thing. The old Rachel would've signed up for anything and everything, even for clubs that didn't apply to her in the slightest. But it's about time she refocuses and gets back to what got her to New York in the first place; her never-ending drive to push and succeed at all costs, no matter what the obstacles or circumstances.

It's around midnight, and Rachel sits in the kitchen with the lights dimmed down low, sipping from a glass of water as she reads through a script she got from Daniel the other day. The scene she's preparing for calls for a dark room, with the main character drinking a flute of cranberry vodka, but they don't have any vodka, so Rachel acts the part and whispers the lines aloud as not to wake up Kurt, who's trying desperately to get a good night's sleep for once.

Rachel hears the metal door slide open, and she hopes to god Santana is neither drunk nor high tonight. She loves when they cuddle, but some distance could definitely do them some good. Santana has a habit of being way too honest when she's tired and intoxicated, and this trait is usually endearing but not when it conflicts with Rachel's beauty sleep.

Santana comes straight into the kitchen and opens the freezer, but she jumps back when her eyes land on Rachel sitting at the counter. The expression on her face is hilarious, and Rachel giggles quietly as Santana flips her the birdie.

"What the fuck are you doing, sitting in the dark like an evil sprite?"

Rachel rolls her eyes. “I’m going over my lines, if you must know."

"In the dark?"

She lifts the script with a shrug of her shoulders. "The scene calls for it."

Santana stares at her and then lets out a dry laugh, deathly unamused. “I hope you know you almost gave me a fucking heart attack."

"Well, let’s be honest, you would've had one eventually with the kind of food you eat,” she quips, and Santana gasps, feigning hurt as she rounds the counter.

"Wow, look at you, Mighty Mouse,” she drawls, arching a brow, “with your quick wit and biting comebacks. Learned from the best, I see."

Rachel nods, propping her elbow up on the counter. “Yes, I do have to admit,” she says, “Kurt's witty ways with words is a very useful tool to have in New York."

She scoffs. "I really hate you sometimes."

"You love me, and you know it."

Santana doesn’t argue against that, tugging needlessly on her birthstone necklace—a recent habit Rachel’s linked to Santana’s odd need to touch things whenever she’s anxious. Carefully rounding the rest of the counter, Santana puts a foot on the bottom of her stool and leans forward, right into Rachel’s personal space.

“So, what’s this you're reading?" she asks, eyes scanning over Rachel’s script.

Suddenly self-conscious, Rachel snatches the script away, because now that Santana’s gotten into screenwriting, everything she reads over is inadequate at best. “A scene in a play I'm auditioning for next week,” Rachel tells her, rolling the papers up in her hand. “Daniel's friend is the playwright, so he comes highly recommended." Santana eyes her curiously, strolling behind Rachel before reaching over her shoulder and snatching the script out of her hands. “Santana!”

“C'mon,” Santana practically whines, fanning the script across her neck. “I’ll help you get ready. It’ll be fun.” Rachel seriously doubts that, but Santana’s looking at her with that damn near irresistible pout, and she’s weak against it. Reluctantly, she agrees with a curt nod, and Santana cheers softly, as not wake up Kurt, and then pulls up a stool right next to Rachel so that they can share the script. “So, who're you going for, Ben or Amy?"

Rolling her eyes, Rachel nudges Santana in the shoulder. “Ha, very funny,” she says, plucking the papers out of Santana’s hand. “I thought the transgender jokes died sophomore year, right along with your heterosexuality."

A perfectly arched eyebrow rises, and Santana smirks, eyes aglow in acknowledgment and amusement. The only thing Santana likes more than getting under people’s skin is when they can dish it out just as hard. “Indeed it did,” she says, mildly impressed, until a frown twitches at the corner of her lips. She needlessly tugs on the pendant around her neck again. “I’m sorry for that, by the way. I don't even know why we said that. You'd never pass for a dude," Santana murmurs, awkwardly gesturing toward Rachel's chest, "I mean, I'm not blind. You're like, obviously not a man, so yeah."

“Um. Thank you, Santana.” Rachel smiles stiffly and tries to ignore the heat rising to the tips of her ears.

"Mhmm,” Santana says, shrugging like it’s no big deal, and okay, maybe it isn’t, but to Rachel it always feels like more than it really is. “Okay, so I'll read for Ben. You can start."

Rachel clears her throat and then opens up the script to a page she hasn’t yet gone over. She looks it over quickly, and then points out where they’re starting. "Knock, knock,” she says, banging her fist against the counter.

Santana glances down at the script and then pretends to open a door. She smiles awkwardly. "Amy, hi. I had no idea you were going to be in town this week," she says, sounding mildly surprised. "Aren't you supposed to be getting married in less than a month?"

"I needed to see you,” Rachel reads.

Santana groans with a roll of her eyes. “ _Amy_."

"No, let me say this. I love Jeremy, I do, but he's...He's not you, Ben.” Rachel shakes her head, painting her features with a look of distress. “He doesn't get me the way you do. No one ever has."

Santana stares at her for a long moment, eyes narrowed. "You're...you're leaving your fiancé?"

"Only if you'd have me."

"This is—wow, I always thought there was something wrong with me," Santana says, pinching the bridge between her eyes, "that I just wasn't lovable—"

"Of course you're lovable."

Furrowing her eyebrows, Santana pauses and then looks down at the script. “Rach, that wasn't the line."

"It wasn't?" Rachel feels her face flush as she rereads the line. _Shit_. "Oh, sorry. What I meant to say was, You have to believe me, Ben. I've loved you from the moment I laid eyes on you."

Santana bites her lip and looks at Rachel for a moment, eyes squinted thoughtfully. "Are you really going to tell me you’d give everything up—what you have with Jeremy, your beautiful home, the opportunity to have a family—just to be with me? I'm—we'd never be able to have children, Amy. I can't give that to you," Santana recites, and then makes a face that clear means _why the fuck not_.

"I know, and I don't care,” Rachel says, placing a hand over her chest. “I love you not despite your differences. I love you _because_ of them."

Rolling her eyes, Santana looks down at the script and then laughs. A blush crawls up Rachel’s neck at the next scene direction, and she averts her gaze in embarrassment. "Then they kiss,” Santana whispers, looking just as uncomfortable as Rachel feels, but her forced smile remains as she turns the page. Santana rubs the back of her neck, and to break the odd tension, says, “You know, I’d suggest some tongue action in this kiss, because that's the _only_ thing that could possibly save this shit of a play."

Shaking her head in agreement, Rachel gratefully takes the out. “It's really that bad, huh?"

"I haven't even started my classes yet, but from everything I've read online about screenwriting,” Santana winces, flapping the script around, “this story development and scene movement is atrocious. Who'd you say wrote this?"

"Daniel's friend."

“Well, that explains it."

Rachel tsks, and then snatches the papers out of Santana’s loose grip. "Be nice."

"Rach, _please_.” Santana stands up from off her stool and then rounds the counter, reaching into one of the cabinets for a jar of peanut butter. “You should know by now that I don't have a nice bone in my body."

So many memories come flashing back to her as Santana twists the top off of the peanut butter jar and then scoops a spoon inside. She offers a spoonful to Rachel first, but Rachel declines, waving a hand, so Santana licks the silverware clean with a crooked smile. It’s like she knows exactly what she’s doing, and Rachel has to focus her eyes elsewhere in order to concentrate on the conversation.

“In the past, I would have easily believed that,” Rachel says, leaning forward on the counter with both elbows propped up, “but now...you're a lot sweeter than you give yourself credit for, Santana."

"Ha, no," Santana laughs dryly. "I am _not_ sweet."

"You just spent a half hour going over my scenes with me.” Rachel raises a brow, smiling cutely. “If that's not sweet, I don't know what is."

A stiff shoulder rises, and Santana leans across the counter in front of Rachel. Their faces are only a few inches apart, but Rachel doesn’t move away. She holds Santana’s stare, unwavering, and then smiles when Santana leans forward and bops their noses together. “I am sort of sweet, aren't I?"

"The sweetest,” Rachel drawls, smiling unwillingly now as Santana scoops up another spoonful of peanut butter and then stares at it as if it’ll start talking.

She presses her lips together, and then grins mischievously. “Well, that is what all the ladies say."

And of course Santana turns a truly sincere conversation about her kindness into a sexual innuendo. Rachel would roll her eyes and giggle at the joke if she thought it were funny, but the joke is a little too true to take lightly. More than likely, all of the women Santana’s been with probably have enjoyed the experience, especially since they always make it a habit to come back for more.

“And that's my cue,” Rachel sighs, sliding off her stool. “Night, Santana."

"Nighty night, Rach,” Santana says, quirking an eyebrow, and though she seems a little confused at the change of atmosphere, she obviously isn’t concerned enough to question it. Instead, she pops the silver spoon back into her mouth and smiles through a bite of peanut butter as she singsongs, “Don't let the evil sprites bite."

\--

Daniel knows a shortcut to their audition, so she accepts his invitation for them to go together. It's always better going places with other people while in the city anyway. Let's just say she's gotten lost in this place way more times than she’d ever be willing to admit.

They talk on the way there—through the subway, down the street, around the corner—about mundane things, like what's up, down, under, between, and then Daniel tells her about this great theatre program in Philadelphia that Miss July sends only two students to every spring break for three weeks.

It goes over the allotted time for break, but the internship grants extra credits, and not only that, but the opportunities they offer the winner of the internship are endless. Alumni who have graduated from NYADA years and years ago still reap the benefits from this program, and the way Daniel's going on and on about it makes it quite obvious that he'll be applying.

He tells Rachel that she should give it a go too. "You never know," he says, but Rachel doubts that very much. She and Miss July haven't been butting heads lately, but that hardly means she's the woman's favorite student.

Daniel shrugs a shoulder as he reaches into his satchel and pulls out an application for her anyway, because besides Santana, he seems to believe in her the most.

—

She ends up not getting the part after a grueling auditioning process—well, it wasn’t too grueling, because all she really had to do was read over a few lines, but they kept calling her back, and she thought she was so close. The audition spanned out to last a total of three days and seven hours, but then the head casting director called her in just to tell her that she just doesn't have what they're looking for, but thanks anyway.

The door clicks shut behind her, and Rachel leans up against the wall and stares straight forward in silence for a while, just thinking and rehashing her entire audition; her lines, what she did wrong, how she can improve for next time, etc. No one's around, so she lets herself zone out until Daniel comes out with a smile that's too big for his face, excitedly telling her that he got the part of Ben.

She congratulates him, because that really is wonderful, and she's happy for him, of course, but that doesn't take the sting out of her own rejection. Of course there are other plays and other productions and other roles, but the thing is, rejection always hurts, no matter who it's from, and this has been her ninth rejection in only one week.

Confidence has never been an issue for Rachel, but it’s hard to stay hopeful at times when all she keeps hearing is _no_.

\--

Santana's phone is busy when Rachel tries to call her, so she ends up on the phone with Angela, pathetically rambling on about how she's not good enough to make it New York, but Angela cuts her off in the middle of her pity party and orders her to get it together.

"I am _seriously_ tired of your moping, Rachel. Santana doesn't love you back, boohoo. Santana's mad at you, boohoo. Miss July is threatening your life, boohoo. You didn't get the part in Daniel's friend's crappy ass play, boohoo," she goes on and on, scoffing through the phone speaker in exasperation, and Rachel really thinks she should be offended by some of this, but it would take way too much energy to get upset right now. "Rachel, listen to me, okay, hon? No more moping. You are going to put on your big girl thong and come out with me tonight, and together we're going to get dangerously trashed. Maybe we'll even find someone for you to bang—what are you feeling tonight, dick or vagina?—because, girl, it has been _way_ too long since you've hacked the sack."

Rachel would argue if it weren’t true, but Angela's right. It has been way too long—almost over a year—since she's let herself go, and to think, the only real experience she's had at this, besides touching herself, was with Finn. It's a worrying thought, how inexperienced and horrible she probably is at sex compared to Santana's level of expertise and mastery, skills and abilities.

All Rachel knows about girl on girl sex is from the snippets she's seen of lesbian porn; not because she was deliberately searching for that, but because a link had popped up when she was browsing through those informative sapphic websites, and she's always been curious when it comes to different types of relations, so why not this? Rachel tries not to discriminate when it comes to her research topics.

After hearing Angela's persuasive pitch, Rachel agrees to go out instead of spending the night moping around the loft. She takes a quick shower and then texts Kurt and Santana that she'll be out late. Neither of them get back to her by the time she heads out.

Angela's already partying by the time Rachel shows up. She's in the same booth as always, along with some familiar faces from their dance class, but there's also a few individuals Rachel's never seen before. With a sly grin, Angela introduces Rachel to one of the unfamiliars, and then forces them to dance together after a few rounds. By now, Rachel is a little beyond tipsy, and the guy she's dancing with is starting to look more and more like Zac Efron with every sip of Sangria.

Her head is spinning, and the guy moving with her on the dance floor is really funny. Rachel can't even hear what he's saying, but whatever it is, it must be hilarious, because Rachel tips her head back and laughs hysterically. The guy—she can't even remember his name, but she's pretty sure it starts with an N or something—offers her another drink, but Rachel feels close to throwing up, so she politely declines and then tells him that she wants to sit down.

He smiles and nods his head, taking Rachel's hand as they walk over to a booth, but it's not the same spot they were sitting at earlier. This side of the bar is a bit more secluded, but Rachel doesn't mind. The music isn't nearly as loud over here, so she revels in the ability to hear and actually understand her thoughts.

They talk for a bit, about nothing in particular, just some meaningless flirting—a bunch of _oh yeahs_ and _is that rights_ and _haha definitelys_ sprinkled around here and there—but eventually Rachel can't take it anymore. She's sweaty and exhausted and her brain feels like it's knocking against her skull, and she honestly doesn't know how some people can do this night after night. It's certainly a lonesome way to live. She's spent the last two hours talking to a guy in which she doesn't even know the name, and yes, she could've asked at any point in time, but after the first hour, that type of question just seems incredibly rude.

After another fifteen minutes, she tells what's-his-face that she's ready to get out of here, but he must take that as a sign that they're heading back to her place _together_. Rachel's drunk off her ass, sure, but not even she's going to go home with a man she just met tonight. The guy seems really nice and polite, but there are two types of people in this world; those who can have one night stands, and those who just can't. Rachel is part of the can't variety, and that's what she tells Nathan.

_Nathan!_

So.

That's his name.

Nathan smiles, tells her that he understands, and then presses a quick kiss to her cheek before putting Rachel in a cab and sending her home. On the whole ride back, Rachel regrets not going home with him. Maybe a one night stand would've gotten everything out of her system, but then Rachel remembers; that's how Santana thinks—that’s what Santana _does_ —and if it has yet to work for her, Rachel doubts it’ll work for anybody.

\--

She’s alone at the loft, up on the rooftop, nursing a bottle of beer—which she doesn't even like, but it was the only alcohol in the kitchen—and that's where Santana finds her.

Rachel was already drunker than sailor when she climbed up the steps to the roof about ten minutes ago, but the extra alcohol has quickly made its way through her bloodstream, and if she's being perfectly honest, the world is starting to look a little bit fuzzier with every passing second.

It's the second Friday night in a row that Santana hasn't come home with Cole—not that Rachel's keeping track or anything—and so she smiles drunkenly, tipping her beer bottle at her friend in greeting. Santana only rolls her eyes in amusement as she throws a blanket over Rachel's shoulders.

Rachel's just about to ask how Santana knew she was up here, but the other girl cuts her off, saying, "Do you really think drinking on the roof is a smart idea? One misstep, and _splat_."

Rachel hides her smirk behind the nozzle of her bottle. "Says the girl who smoked weed out on the fire escape."

Eyes squinted, Santana looks at her, clearly contemplating whether to be serious about Rachel's abnormally drunken state. "Do as I say, not as I do," she says, choosing the joking route, because it's easier, and Santana looks like she’d rather not get into anything heavy tonight.

Rachel runs her tongue over her front teeth, and then mutters, “Motto of the century.”

Rubbing at her arms over her sweatshirt, Santana breathes out a long sigh, her cheeks puffing up as glances around the rooftop. "We should buy a lounge chair," she says, nodding at her own idea. "You know, for tanning in the summer and for airplane gazing in the winter.”

A smile quirks at the side of Rachel's lips, and she giggles, amused at the thought of the two of them trying to carry lounge chairs up ten stories of narrow steps. "Airplane gazing?" she wonders skeptically, clutching on to the edge of her blanket as she shifts a little closer to Santana.

Breathing out a bundle of hot air into her palms, Santana bobs her head and then leans her forearms over the ledge. "Yeah," she says easily, glancing up at the dark sky, "because there are no stars."

Rachel looks up after taking another sip of her beer, and her eyes quickly find an airplane soaring above them. She allows her eyelids to close and then makes a wish, something stupid about love and making it hurt a little bit less.

Brushing shoulders every now and then, they both gaze up at the night sky together, silently musing over whatever comes to mind. Rachel has no idea what's going on in Santana's head—they know each other well, but she's not an actual mindreader—yet she does wonder sometimes what Santana could be thinking, what thoughts come across her mind, what she spends the most time wondering about, who she finds herself picturing in her mind's eye the most.  

When Santana's quiet like this, without the brash comments and the biting insults, without the teasing smirks and the distracting looks, there's really just a girl inside, who's scared of this city, of this world, just as much as Rachel is. There's just a girl inside, who was heartbroken by the one person she originally believed could never hurt her, so if she's thinking about someone, anyone at this moment, it's probably Brittany Pierce.

Rachel's not going to kid herself. She's not going to fantasize or imagine or even believe, because despite their current proximity—despite Rachel being right here beside Santana—she knows she's not on the forefront of Santana's mind at times like this.

These quiet, thoughtful moments are reserved for lost loves, and that's why Rachel spends this moment thinking about Santana, because even though you can't technically lose somebody you've never had, it still feels like a loss all the same when Santana continues to look at her as just a friend.  

Friendship will have to do for now, but even though she told Kurt she'd move on, Rachel can't lose hope. She's pushing her luck on so many levels, but all of the great love stories always start off like this; lackluster, miserable, without a pinch of hope or chance for the lovesick protagonist. But that's why the story doesn't end in the beginning.

There's a future awaiting, though she and Santana hardly ever talk about the it—what'll happen once their four years of college are up. What will happen to their friendship? If Santana decides to stay in the city, would they still be roommates? What if Santana meets someone? Attains a girlfriend? Would she ever move in with her, leaving Rachel to fend for herself?

Obviously none of that will be happening any time soon, but Rachel can't help but think ahead and plan for the future. She's always been that way. The future used to be this bright beacon of light, but ever since she's acknowledged her true feelings for Santana, the future has seemed so unpredictable and enigmatic and difficult to interpret. There is absolutely no one else Rachel can picture herself being with for the rest of her life, and that notion both exhilarates and frightens her, because she knows, deep down inside, that Santana will never want the same thing.

Eventually, Santana will find someone new, someone to love, someone who can offer her friendship, laughter, sex, and a heart. Rachel's afraid of that day—the day Santana realizes she can't stay with her best friend for the rest of her life; the day they can no longer stand on the rooftop in the freezing cold, staring up at airplanes soaring high above them, making wishes that'll probably never come true.

Interrupting Rachel's musings, Santana makes a comment about how she's never seen Rachel drink anything other than red wine and fruity cocktails. She means it teasingly, only trying to make Rachel smile, but it doesn't really cheer her up any, so Santana's next plan of action is to ask what's wrong.

At first Rachel is resistant, unsure of how much she really wants to reveal, but then she decides to stick to the facts. "I didn't get the part," she says, and then breathes out a long sigh. Santana's dark, painfully thoughtful eyes remain on Rachel, practically dissecting her for more information. "I don't get it. I _really_ don't get it," she whispers, carelessly messing with her bangs as they fall into her eyes. "I'll just never be good enough. In Lima, I didn't matter. Here, I don't matter. It's getting—" she pauses to breathe out a weary sigh, "Maybe I just need to go somewhere else."

Santana's eyes widen at that, and she immediately shakes her head, clearly against the idea. She almost looks panicked at the thought of being left here alone, and Rachel's loose grip tightens around her beer bottle before she sets it down on the brick ledge.

"If you leave here, you're an idiot," Santana says, her tone not at all gentle, not in the least. Rachel winces at the bite in her friend's words, and Santana rolls her eyes and then lowers them to the ground in regret. "Sorry," she says, softer this time, "but you've dreamt of coming to New York since you were like, a fetus. I'm not going to let you give up just because a few lazy fuckers didn't pick you for some mediocre role. And also," she pauses in the middle of her train of thought, tugging on the birthstone necklace hanging in front of her chest. "I'd...if you left, I would be all alone here. I mean, I'd have Kurt and Henry, I guess, but neither of them get me like you do."

Santana tries to play off her honesty with a quick shrug of her shoulders, but that action only succeeds in warming Rachel's heart further. Admittedly, she's not even sure if she gets Santana half the time, because her roommate is not nearly the easiest mystery to solve. Are mixed signals even signals if they don’t exist? Is Rachel herself so mixed up that she’s actually making all of this up? Has she been making up the way Santana looks at her and smiles with that something in her eyes; the way she drops everything for Rachel and even holds her at night when they’re both feeling lonely?

(It’s…well, Rachel hasn’t had many true friends, but she’s certain that normal friendships between people who’re really _just_ friends…she knows they’re nothing like this.)

Rachel told herself—only about a week ago, actually—that she was going to stop crying over Santana Lopez, but maybe this isn't the same thing. She's not crying because she's been indirectly hurt. She's not crying over a love she'll never have. She's not crying because the person she wants always wants somebody else. These are happy tears streaming down her flushed cheeks, because finally, after months of thinking Santana only kept her around for necessity, she's realized that not only does she need Santana, but Santana needs her too.  

Santana holds her as she cries, and then tells Rachel all of the reasons as to why the casting director is a dumbass for not giving someone as talented and gifted and beautiful as Rachel that role. It only makes her cry harder as she tucks her face into Santana's neck, sniffling and taking deep breaths to calm herself every time an unexpected sob racks through her body.

Santana rubs her back, between her shoulder blades, in small circles, because she knows just how to settle Rachel, how to hold her when she's feeling lost, and how to comfort her when Kurt's not around to talk her down.

The world still feels like a dizzy place, and her head is so light and floaty that when she tries to take a step back her feet shuffle forward instead. Santana reaches for her out of habit, wrapping both arms around Rachel's torso to steady her. She laughs, her lips a breath away from touching Rachel's forehead, so Rachel leans that extra inch forward until she's breathing hotly against Santana's chin, nudging her nose against her roommate's open lips.

Santana doesn't say anything, or even move. Her hands slide lower down Rachel's back, bringing her in closer, and Rachel—lost in whatever drunken alternate reality she's occupying—uses all of her strength to lean up and press a soft, seemingly innocent kiss to the corner of Santana's lips. Santana breathes out a sigh, tilting her head sideways, and their eyes lock. Shiny, dark eyes meet Rachel's, unclear and wary, but Rachel sinks into them anyway, so deeply that she never wants to come out.

All of the air leaves her chest at the sight of that penetrating stare. She can just barely feel every exhale out of Santana's mouth against her skin. Rachel can't take it anymore, hesitantly closing that extra few inches between them to capture those plump lips in a searing kiss.  

For a while, Santana kisses back, forcefully fisting the blanket hanging over Rachel's shoulders. Her heart putters so fast in her chest it feels like it'll explode. The kiss is just as soft as Rachel remembers, and she does remember. It might've happened months ago, that hurried and lust-filled kiss in the kitchen during New Years, but it was a memorable one.

Rachel remembers every second of it, just as she'll remember this; the way Santana sighs into her mouth, kissing her fully and selfishly, and then tugging on her lower lip before diving back in for more, incorporating her tongue with a quick flick before it's gone forever, because then—right when Rachel's really starting to get into it—Santana catches herself and attempts to pull away, but Rachel only leans forward, horrified at the thought of losing this contact after months of dreaming about nothing but.

"Whoa, wait, wait," Santana breathes out, her lips still pursed from their kiss. Her eyes shift sideways, round cheeks a bright crimson as she stares at Rachel with a wild expression. " _Shit_ ," she whispers, touching her mouth with the tips of her fingers in bewilderment. "Oh my God, Rachel. What—what the fuck are we doing?"

Santana's obviously panicking, so Rachel pulls her closer by tugging on the sleeve of her jacket. Whether it's the alcohol or the adrenaline rush, Rachel doesn't know, but her nerves have seemingly vanished out of thin air. “Don't worry about it,” she says, leaning in again. "We're just kissing."

Santana backs away and lets out an uneasy laugh, confusion in her dark eyes. "Just kissing," she drawls, and then squints her eyes searchingly, still touching her mouth as if it doesn't belong to her. "The fuck, Rachel? You practically licked my tonsils."

The way she says it—as if they both weren't just giving in to the act—hurts like hell, but if her memory serves her right, there was a kiss, a long, sensual kiss, and Santana gave into it just as much as Rachel did, and Rachel will take anything she's given at this point. Even though that could possibly be considered desperate or pathetic, she doesn't care. Those plump, chapped lips were on hers not even three minutes ago, and Rachel's going to revel in the moment for as long as she can.

Still undeterred, she reaches out, blindly grasping onto Santana's hand. She runs her thumb over the back of soft, nimble fingers, eyes focused up as she leans forward again, but at the last minute Santana slips her hand away with a shake of her head.

"I..." Santana furrows her eyebrows, staring at Rachel as if she can't quite decide what she wants, "Rachel, what are you—" she cuts herself off with a shaky laugh, clearly embarrassed by what's happening. The poor girl looks terribly shaken, and Rachel supposes she'd be in the same predicament if she wasn't so intoxicated. Santana struggles to find the right words as she licks at her bruised lips. "I think I know what you want from me, Rach, but...I can't do this with you."

Rachel's heart sinks, right into a deep black hole—or abyss, have you—and it feels like a pain she'll never be able to recover from. Santana's eyes are narrowed thin, lips curled into a quizzical expression, and Rachel can do nothing but hold on to that stare.

Her head is on a merry-go-round, thoughts recirculating into a never-ending pattern. She can't focus on one direct thought. All Rachel can concentrate on is Santana's pained expression. She's looking at Rachel as if she doesn't even recognize her, and that's what ends up bringing her back down to earth. The flighty feeling in her head subsides, immediately replaced with a twisted knot in her stomach, and Rachel pushes away the burning in her eyes to better concentrate on the anger rising in her chest.

"Why?" she snaps, though her voice remains at a harsh whisper. Rachel swallows and straightens, her posture stiff and jerky. "Am I not attractive enough for you? Is it because I'm not tall, blonde, and beautiful?"

"Wait, what—are you being serious right now?" Santana asks, clearly befuddled. Shaking her head, she glances around the rooftop as if she's looking for a camera or something. "Rachel, where is this all coming from?"

She tries to withhold it, but her face ends up crumbling up anyway. "You're always sleeping with girls to get rid of the pain," she practically whines, "It's an ongoing cycle, because not only do you have sex to feel better, but other girls have sex with _you_ to feel better, so why not me? Why can't I feel better for once?"

She's full on sobbing now, and Santana stares at her, mouth agape, before creating some more space between them. Looking away, she runs a hand through her hair and then licks her lips in astonishment. "Well, firstly, you're not gay, Rachel," she says angrily, like that's even a valid point. After a moment, Santana rolls her eyes at what just came out of her mouth, but it's too late to take it back, so instead she goes, "I mean, I'm not a professional on fucking the pain away, but I'm pretty sure that sleeping with the gender you're not attracted to will only make you feel worse about yourself."

"Gay, straight, bisexual, transgender, asexual," Rachel drunkenly rambles, scoffing through a tired laugh. "Sexual normalities won't break these chains. I can be anything I want to be, okay, Santana?"

Santana's upper lip twitches into a small smile. Stepping forward, she pushes at Rachel's shoulder, and Rachel goes off balance for a second, stumbling backwards. Santana's grin only widens at this. "You are really fucking hammered, aren't you?" she says, sounding almost relieved.

There's a pause, and Rachel withholds the urge to roll her eyes. "A little, maybe," she admits, "but I'm serious, Santana, please—"

"Rach," Santana stops her, and then looks down at her shoes. "I know what you're doing, and you'll regret every crazy word coming out of your mouth once you're sober."

"No," Rachel says sullenly. "I promise you, I won't."

"Look, I understand. I get it more than anyone," Santana reassures her, rubbing at the side of her face, like she can't believe she's actually about to say this. "Sometimes, when I'm lonely, I try to fill the void with...with, um—"

"Sexual intercourse," Rachel supplies.

"Yeah, that." Santana rolls her eyes, seemingly uncomfortable talking about sex for the first time in like, ever. Blushing profusely, she looks away for a moment and then clears her throat. "But you don't want to do that, Rachel. I—you don't want to know how many times I've gotten drunk and fucked my friend, or a bartender, or a co-worker," Santana pauses at that, closing her eyes and wincing at whatever memory is playing in her head. "There are so many things I'm not proud of, Rach. _Many_ things. You don't want to drown your sorrows in sex and alcohol. It's a miserable life to live."

"So, sleeping with Quinn was miserable for you?" Rachel quips before she can even think of stopping herself.

Santana opens her mouth to answer, eyes darting sideways and then up to the night sky in exasperation. Her lips move wordlessly for a moment, and then she finally just says, "Quinn wasn't who I wanted to be with that night, which therefore makes what I did kind of pathetic."

She didn't answer the question. Rachel asked whether being with Quinn was a miserable experience, and in turn, Santana reprimands _herself_ , as if it's her _own_ fault, as if _she's_ the one who was asking for it, and who's to say, perhaps she did. Perhaps she was asking for it.

Rachel curses herself for being so stupid and then bites her lip raw. "Do you regret it?"

Breathing out a sigh, Santana closes her eyes. "Well, I mean, we live and we learn, right? Quinn and I are still cool, and I think I really grew from that experience, so...no, I don't regret it," she says honestly, and then takes a step forward, resting a hesitant hand on Rachel's shoulder. The touch burns so good that her heart lurches out of her ribcage, slamming right up against her chest. "But you and I? I think I would regret this. You're beautiful, Rach, and you're sexy, and I so would, believe me, but you're my best friend, and sometimes you're my only female friend in this entire city. I just can't lose that."

Shockingly, those words do nothing for her. Santana would sleep with her, but oops, sorry, no she won't. Santana’s stroking Rachel's ego, hoping she's drunk enough to let this go until she's thinking rationally again, because all Santana thinks Rachel wants is sex—a heated night, a one night stand to forget about her rejection, how pitiful her life in New York has been—but Rachel's not feeding into it, because that's not the only thing she wants. Whether Santana's attracted to her or not isn't even the sole issue here. Bushes with all the right curves make Santana horny, so this confession isn't much to neither of them. Not really.

Rachel tugs the blanket tighter around her shoulders, and then narrows her eyes on the empty beer bottle sitting on the ledge. "You keep saying that," she whispers, tired of hearing herself referred to as just a friend.

"Because, Rach," Santana says, plopping down heavily on a wooden crate, "because it's the no-fucking-around truth." She cradles her face in her hands and lets out a disgruntled moan, continuing to shake her head slowly, and Rachel watches, her bottom lip trembling. Sniffling, Santana rubs at her temples, dark eyes shining when she peeks up at Rachel again. "I love having you as a friend, and I don't want to jeopardize that," she says, her voice shaky on the last word. "I don't have any normal _girl_ friends. I don't know what it is about me, but once a woman finds out I'm a lesbian, they don't want friendship anymore."

A knot forms in the pit of Rachel's stomach. She doesn't want to be like all of those other girls who use Santana for sex, and she _knows_ that what she feels for Santana is so much more than just lust—she understands the difference—but Santana doesn't know that, and Rachel's not really sure how to express it. When Santana looks at her, all she probably sees is another girl, overwhelmed by the moment while drunk off of her ass, and now it makes sense as to why Santana would come to this conclusion.

Rachel's never given her any other reason to think otherwise. Her dating history has always included boys. Her obsession in high school was over Finn Hudson, of all people. Her primary focus, other than Broadway, was finding her leading man. There was never a woman in the picture. There was never a woman on her radar, even, so why should Santana ever think otherwise?

Santana pins her with an unreadable expression, heavy tears building in her glassy eyes, just begging to be released. Standing up, she shoves her hands into the pockets of her sweatshirt as she looks down into the alleyway below them. She scoffs through a wet laugh, sniffling again. "They immediately see me as nothing other than a conquest, a bed warmer, a friend with benefits, and _dammit_ ," Santana turns away, facing the city with her back to Rachel, "all I want is a friend now. I already ruined that with Britt. Not you too, Rach."

Rachel's cheeks burn, embarrassed at how Santana must see her now. They're best friends, and the last thing Rachel wants to do is make Santana feel insignificant, or unworthy of her affection. Rachel loves her, and she's not about to throw away their friendship over a small thing like sex, or temporary pleasure.

She takes a deep breath, wipes at her teary eyes. They stand silently near the ledge of the rooftop, and neither one of them say anything for the longest time. Each second that ticks away increases the beating in Rachel's chest. It's a long way down, and Rachel peeks over the edge, breathing out a husky cloud of condensation as the cold air of March settles into her bones.

"Santana," she says, and then looks over.

Santana turns her head and hooks a strand of dark hair behind her ear. Rachel stares at her for a moment, feeling so hopeless and lost, wondering if it'll always be this way every time she looks at Santana, or every time Santana looks at her, with that quirk in her upper lip, with those gorgeous, heavy eyes, with that scrunched up nose.

It's magnetic, whatever it is, and Rachel never wants to let go of it, but some things just aren't meant to be. Santana doesn't want her. Santana can't even entertain the idea of wanting her. She's so beyond it ever being an exception or explanation that she indirectly turns Rachel's confession into a mockery of her neediness and lack of control when inebriated.

Rachel's done all she can do, for now, because, really, all an _I'm in love with you, Santana_ would bring is a bemused expression, a crooked smile, and a bark of laughter, because there's no way Rachel Berry could ever fall in love with Santana Lopez.

"I love you," she says anyway, smiling through her tears.

Santana studies her, dark eyes bouncing back and forth in understanding. "I love you too, Rachel," she breathes out into the cold air, and then wraps an arm around Rachel's shoulder to bring her into a warm embrace, repeatedly whispering, "I love you too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'll make this short and sweet. I've been notified, or rather informed, that the slow-going pace of this story will decrease the amount of readers following, and while I greatly appreciate the constructive criticism and completely understand this, whole-heartedly, I had originally explained that this story was going to be quite a journey so that there were no misunderstandings. All of this pre-stuff serves a purpose for what comes next, and for those of you who have stuck around during the lulls, I really do appreciate it. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the chapter.
> 
> For any questions about the story (or anything, really), please feel free to contact me through my tumblr. 
> 
> Thanks. ;)
> 
> \- acid.glue234


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